


Sense

by arlathahn



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Bickering is the best way to say you care, Canon Compliant, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Getting Together, Missing Scenes, Non-Linear Narrative, The Author Regrets Nothing, Welcome to the 20k meta of Fiona/Rhys being endgame, honorable mention: Rhys' tie and tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 17:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17985392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: The worst part is, it’s the oldest tale in the book.Or: how to fall in love with a company man, in backwards order.





	Sense

**Author's Note:**

> As usual I'm about five years too late with this fic, but alas, the heart wants what it wants. 
> 
> Title is from Tom Odell's song by the same name, which was pretty much my own personal Fiona anthem writing this piece.
> 
> (Also, in case it wasn't clear: this fic is in reverse order. Literally.)

 

* * *

 

 

The worst part is, it’s the oldest tale in the book.

In a truth universally acknowledged by every con artist, petty thief, and organized criminal, one does not _fall in love with the mark._ And one certainly does not invite the mark on a road trip, or an adventure, or generally extend any semblance of courtesy except that which is warranted under a guise. There is certainly no sense of partnership, for such hard earned respect would be unbefitting of the party being swindled. A true artist would not betray knowledge so crucial to their trade, and under no circumstance whatsoever would they _go back for seconds._

And yet.

“So, wanna do it again?”

Rhys looks every part a worthy partner in crime. Gone is the Hyperion logo on his chest, gone is the button-down shirt and tied tie. His red, blue, and yellow hues have been replaced by sleek black, his two-toned irises exchanged for a more natural shade of gold. Confidence lines the dark jacket on his shoulders, and there’s an ease about him, an ease with _her,_ that is equal parts tempting and surprising.

He knows her. Possibly better than she knows herself.

Rhys smiles, and that stupid lopsided grin gets her every damn time. “Hell yes.” 

Fiona smirks back, and only hates herself a little for looking away. Where once the bolded lines between them would incite a grudge, now Fiona appreciates the variation of their size and and format. There is no conflict here, just the receding high of a job well done. Some futures are written in the stars, and Fiona’s long term affection for a Hyperion jackass just so happens to be one of them. It’s not a mark against her pride anymore, its presence stabilized to simple fact. Cliche and ridiculous, but still precious, for all that.

“One condition,” Fiona amends, because she’s still a stubborn ass. Can’t let Rhys get away thinking he’s won, not while there’s breath in her lungs and treasure on the horizon.

“Yes?” The asshole doesn’t even bother to sound surprised. His inflection is light, his face untroubled. He knows how Fiona craves the semblance of control, even as she’s splitting the prize. Rhys falls in step at her side, languid like it’s a walk on the beach. The purple hue of the room is an ocean of alien glory, but for Fiona it may as well be gold.

“I’m driving,” she says, and gives Rhys an elbow nudge for the trouble. It’s been so long since they’ve been here: shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. The nostalgia warms her, just like it did at the start. It feels like the beginning to something real, something _big,_ and Fiona can’t deny the surge of hope rising to the surface, even after all these years. She’s old enough to know better, experienced enough to deny the instinct before it claws too deep, and yet… 

Rhys looks over, and his returning elbow tap is much kinder than hers. He is a tender, awkward, lumbering rectangle of a man at her shoulder, a gentle giant she somehow adores. “Still driving that rust bucket of a caravan?”

Fiona snorts. “You bet. That thing is more reliable than you, at this rate.” 

The Rhys from two years ago would have skittered away, offended, but this new version just scoffs. “No doubt.” 

No tittering, no fumbling. Sure-footed and sarcastic, and wholly adapting to the Pandoran way of life. There may be hope for him yet.

They walk the remainder of the room in silence. The walkway is not long, but it’s just long enough for Fiona to realize how much she’s missed this. Missed _them._ Their mismatched team, their desperate plotting, their ludicrous schemes. She’s missed _Rhys_ and that shouldn’t be surprising, given where her thoughts have lingered, but somehow the source of her pining being close enough to touch...is. Standing tall beside her, Rhys is both the company man she remembers and the new president of Atlas combined, a strange amalgamation of past and present amidst a cluster grenade of memories Fiona desperately wishes to diffuse.  

Or does she?

She’s been down this road once before, and back then it lead to a dead end of heartbreak and missed chances. What are the odds they can turn back time? What are the odds they can still make it right?

Rhys halts at the doorway between one realm and the next, cybernetic hand lingering on the threshold. “I meant it, you know,” he whispers to the shimmering portal. When he glances back Fiona’s way, it’s with a quaint fondness Fiona can’t disassemble or dissect—but damn does she want to. Damn if she wouldn’t love to poke under the hood and analyze every last piece. It’s the only way to truly understand that emotion welling underneath.

“It— _this_ has been...really great.” 

Fiona quirks an eyebrow. It’s still far too easy to tease. “You say this to all the girls?”

Rhys doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “You know what I mean. It’s good to be back together, don’t you think? Despite it all?”

And there it is. That disarming honesty that calls Fiona out on her bullshit every damn time. Fiona’s met plenty of marks, she’s worked plenty of cons, but somehow Rhys the Hyperion grunt turned Atlas CEO is her downfall. He’s a prize idiot, a savant with gadgets and a fumbling dork with humans, but he’s also sweet, too. Sweeter than anyone on Pandora, sweet despite his home and his upbringing. Sweet and vulnerable in a way that is entirely authentic—and entirely successful in a way Fiona never has been. Even at her best, she’s never worked a mark as beautifully as this.

And damn if she’ll ever admit it.

“Yeah,” Fiona says, and makes the mistake of looking back at those two-toned eyes. Rhys smiles again, hopeful and honest, and this is the critical point. This is the fork in the road, the moment Felix would tell her to turn back, turn away, before it’s too late. It’s the instinct of a con gone wrong, the inevitable doom before the self-destruct. Fiona has walked away from situations plenty more precarious than this, but somehow none felt as dangerous—or as fragile. None were as disarming as this simple vulnerability, this checkmate of standing and staring at Rhys. They’re on the precipice of one reality and another, and this is the decision that will shape Fiona’s future. Every memory, every heartbreak, every lesson, and every loss has led to this. 

Felix raised her, Sasha made her, and Rhys tamed her. There’s only ever been one choice, and Fiona’s been saying yes from the beginning. 

“Yeah,” Fiona blinks up at him, and she isn’t going to get emotional about this. She’s not. “It’s good to be back.”

Rhys offers his hand—twice in the past thirty minutes like some sort of romantic hero, who the hell does he think he is—and maybe he’s not the only one who’s different. The Fiona from before wouldn’t accept the hand of a Hyperion grunt in the name of corporate greed and corrupt bureaucracy, but Rhys isn’t Hyperion any more than Fiona is a con artist. She was, and some part of her always will be, but the half of her heart she thought clawed out and sunk beneath a destitute future with dead parents on a backwater planet has somehow resurfaced again, and contrary to everything she’d been taught, it might not be too late for something to bloom out here in the desert.

“Ready to go?” Rhys asks, voice pitched low because he knows. Fiona needs time to think things through, she needs room to breathe. She needs the illusion of control and Rhys is handing over the keys...just like she asked him to.

And so she falls. Of course she falls; she fell from the beginning, didn’t she?   

Fiona sniffs. Goddamn alien atmosphere makes her nose run. “Just one more thing…”

Rhys bends a little, his face serious. “Yes?”

Fiona looks up at him. She winks. “Race ya.” 

She takes off, leaving Rhys behind in a purple alien room now devoid of its treasure. She can hear the Vault shimmer behind her, and a cursing Rhys emerging some yards behind that. Fiona laughs; she always did enjoy dirtying Rhys up a bit, messing with his crisp, polished facade just to fuck with him. He was always so easy to wind up, and Fiona loves being representative of Pandora’s chaos in his life: a whirlwind of trouble, come to knock him off his feet.

Rhys catches up with her, of course; that long torso and those gangly limbs do come in handy for something other than making Atlas suits look good. He even makes better stride than the last time they chased each other across the desert, a testament to Fiona’s positive effect in his life.

“You—” Rhys heaves, laughing, but never bothers finishing the insult.

Fiona snickers, drunk on adrenaline and the sweeping success of a job well done. “Now we’re even.” 

Rhys glares over at her, but his eyes are shining with mischief. “Where, oh where have I heard that before?” 

“No idea what you’re talking about, Hyperion,” Fiona replies, but she’s still smiling.

Rhys makes to pass her, but Fiona stops him with a hand to his elbow. “Hold up a second,” she says, and lets her hand travel down his forearm. He’s rolled his jacket sleeve up halfway and Fiona can just make out the faint trail of his tattoo, faint blue and so very distracting. Fiona slows her pace, her hand with it, until she grasps his hand. A heartbeat later Rhys’ slender fingers wrap around her palm, the receiving end of a promise fulfilled. 

Hand in hand they stroll across the desert, ready to embark on another adventure.

Properly this time.

 

* * *

 

“What’s this?” 

 _This_ being a steaming buffet of exotic foods, _this_ being Rhys hovering near a corner table. He looks vaguely awkward in a way that somehow encapsulates the man behind the mask: poised and expensive, but curiously average despite the money attached at his cufflinks. Altogether the the sight is not a new one, its presence repulsively quaint after an overextended absence, but the collage of man and feast framed together in an eclectic slideshow is...surprising. Almost off-putting, but the added effort of linens on the table— _linens_ in Pandora, god help this poor fool—and catering to Fiona’s whims and wishes—he remembered her affinity for crab cakes—keeps Fiona’s baser indignity at bay.

Rhys is trying. And Fiona knows that. 

Rhys looks up with a startled expression. “Food,” he says, an impulse, then closes his eyes for the nitpicking this particular kind of revelation inevitably warrants. But Fiona is rich today, which is a whole lot better than being poor yesterday, and their partnership has hit its stride. Pandora is still a hot, decaying wasteland with secrets for miles, but there’s lukewarm coffee in her belly and there’s a disgruntled, disheveled Rhys doing his own self-berating for her.

Not a bad day. 

“I mean,” Rhys picks his head back up with only mild disdain. “I promised some friends back on Hyperion after we pulled off this deal I would buy them lunch.”

Fiona quirks an eyebrow. “And?”

Rhys shrugs. “Well, turns out those friends weren’t so great at the _friend_ part, except Vaughn I suppose, so I figured I would reward the people who were actually there when it counted. Well. Mostly, anyway.” 

Fiona snorts. “Mostly, huh?”

But Rhys just smiles. “Yeah. Mostly.”

Fiona doesn’t miss the insinuation, exactly, so much as she carefully dodges it. “Well if it means more free food in my future, maybe I should have your back more often.”

That scores her a laugh, when the Rhys from two years ago would have prickled at her taste in sarcastic corporate humor. This Rhys—new haircut, sleek black suit, still cybernetically enhanced, but not in a Hyperion poster boy sort of way, just in a confident, _I own my strengths and my weaknesses_ sort of way—just nods and chuckles along like he’s in on the joke. The best part is, he actually is.

It’s enough of an acknowledgment to make Fiona glance up at him. Just to see the rare, lackadaisical expression on his face. 

Rhys knows her game, of course, and meets her glance halfway. He’s still so goddamn _tall._ It’s annoying in that it makes Fiona’s discreet looks not so discreet, but Rhys is grinning in a way that means he knows Fiona’s thoughts on the matter and he finds her amusing, too.  

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft like it was in the hallway. “Maybe you should.” 

That scores Rhys another snort. “Atlas, though? Really? Don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of work.”

But Rhys just raises an eyebrow. “And who said it would be corporate? Thinking of branching out, starting from the ground up. Something different.” He hesitates, clarifies: “Something good.”

And damn if her curiosity isn’t piqued. “What are you offering, exactly?”

Rhys looks about the room, fidgeting with a spoon on the table. It’s lazy but coordinated, not his usual awkward demeanor. Maybe that’s gone forever, along with his blue shirt and red tie. It’s not a bad substitution, exactly, but it is notable. Different. Maybe a little distracting. 

“Oh, I don’t know the specifics just yet. Figured I could discuss them with...a business partner.” Rhys’ eyes flit about the room. He’s playing _coy,_ the motherfucker.

Fiona hates herself for falling for the bait, but… “Partner?”

Rhys smiles down at the silverware. “Yeah.”

Fiona thinks. She looks at Rhys, takes in the long planes of his profile. Taller and more confident, yes, with an added bit of hair gel to boot. But he’s still Rhys: still handsome in the dim light of Pandora’s moon, still particular about his dress shirts and astute with his work. Still hung up on silly socks with decorative designs, his own private act of rebellion.

But more than that, he’s still devoted life and limb to a bigger cause. The difference is, now the figure on the horizon is one he can finally recognize as his. Not Jack’s. Not Fiona’s. Just his.

Just Rhys.

“Okay,” Fiona concedes, because this is the time for conceding. This is the time for new starts. This is time to move on from the past—from Felix and his teachings, from Jack and his empire—and start anew. It’s what Pandora is all about, isn’t it? Fresh starts? Sweaty weather? Gunfire and new looks and business opportunities?

But also—about the friends you make along the way. Also—this.

Also Rhys.

“Hit me,” Fiona says, and doesn’t miss the corner of Rhys’ lip curl upward in a self-satisfied smile. 

 _It had to be him_ , Fiona thinks mildly, and it’s as good a place as any to start.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that she isn’t intrigued as to what Rhys has to say.

It’s not that she wishes to interrupt, it’s not that she isn’t curious. It’s not that she hasn’t thought about this moment more times than she can count, and now that she’s here, she’s entirely overwhelmed.

It does, however, have everything to do with the lack of tie, and those damn idiotic tattoos.

“We can go somewhere else if you’d prefer,” Rhys is saying, polite to the last, the faint remnants of a blush dusting his cheekbones. He bends over to turn on a lamp, dimmer than his cybernetic flashlight and more intimate, too, before standing upright and shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
In this, at least, he is every inch the Rhys she remembers.  

And maybe that’s why, right there. It’s the first glimmer of the Rhys from her memory, the Rhys she left behind. The Rhys she wished every day she could have gone back for. The Rhys she mourned, the Rhys she lost. She needs to dissect this new version, she needs to know: did she mourn in vain? Is he still in there, somewhere? Did she change, too? 

Do they still fit, like they used to? 

Fiona doesn’t even answer his question—rude of her—but she figures her response is response enough. Fiona crosses the room in three easy strides, and on the way watches Rhys’ expression teeter between a beautiful mixture of fear, anxiety, and hope.

It’s that last bit that makes her hands respond on muscle memory. It’s just like that night out in the desert, except the scenery has changed. They’ve grown, they’ve lived, they’ve lost. They were adults then, but they’re experienced now, and Fiona knows damn well what will happen if she walks this road again.

And she takes the first step anyway. Damn the rules, damn the consequences.

There’s no tie to grab, but there’s still those damn lapels—dark and sleek and just waiting for the contrast of Fiona’s skin—so Fiona does what she does best: she uses what is at her disposal, and runs straight for what she wants.

And what she wants is Rhys. 

It’s less a kiss and more an invitation: a brush of lips, a quirk of an eyebrow, a look in the eye. Fiona asks and Rhys answers, tentative and sweet before diving in, and diving deep.

There’s a catch in Rhys’ throat when he falls into Fiona’s orbit. Surprise, maybe, or inevitability. Fiona spares a second to wonder if he wasn’t expecting this, if time changed the intent to something unwanted, but she doesn’t have long to wonder. Fiona pulls back just as Rhys shoots forward, his brain on board and his body willing.

There’s an awkward exchange of breath, caught in the in between, but Fiona pushes past it, frustrated with the lack of progress and the ridiculous jacket Rhys calls a coat. Fiona runs her fingers along the inseam, and Rhys shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, bypassing Fiona’s teasing entirely. His lack of patience is a stroke to her ego, a compliment that brings the victory of this little chess match back in her favor. 

Because if there’s one thing Fiona abhors, it’s being off her game. It’s not _knowing._ Fiona wants to feel Rhys, wants to reacquaint herself with those sharp bones and blue tattoos; she wants to swallow him whole and examine every unpolished piece.

Fiona expects a mystery. She expects a different kind of man to relearn, a man she hardly knows at all. What she does not expect are the reminders. The familiar. There is soft velvet lining Rhys’s shoulder blades, soft and warm like the jacket he bought her. Soft and warm like his hands at her back. Soft and warm like his smile after a long bout of their bickering, soft and warm like his smile when her sweet side pulls through.

It would be easier, Fiona thinks, if there was something to miss. Something to mourn. But Rhys is still alive, still touching her, still inviting her in. _Trust me,_ his lips whisper. _Let me in,_ his hands caress. He’s more than capable, Fiona knows that now, and the thought that he would relinquish his precious control, for _her,_ goes beyond compliments and harsh truths. It is its own kind of honesty, and it doesn’t even require words.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Fiona feels herself free falling, her grip on reality shifting just enough to be precarious. Just enough to be unpredictable. Fiona grips Rhys’ shoulders tight and moves back into familiar territory, where the night can progress her way.

Her way means backing Rhys into the bedpost, too thin and wholly unstable, but it does the trick of providing a brief reprieve so Fiona can sneak her hands along that teasing collarbone good and proper, relishing every shocked gasp Rhys tries and fails to choke off. Her manhandling has the added effect of shocking Rhys into amicable compliance, a rare treat, so Fiona smirks and bites his lip for good measure. Rhys’ returning groan is music to her ears; it’s good to know he still enjoys a little bossing around.

Fiona uses every advantage, and Rhys’ momentary surprise means she can converge on her target, his lips. She’s gentle with him here, gentle where she otherwise lacks grace, and it is a kindness, she thinks, that her mouth speaks its own kind of language when it is connected to his. 

Rhys gets with the program—smart lad—his hands snaking across her back to envelope her the way she so adores. His long limbs cover their terrain so wonderfully Fiona can’t help but arch into him, releasing a sigh of her own. Rhys captures the sound, his tongue countering her attack with surprising ease, and Fiona should have known, really, that his new status as Atlas CEO would come along with a confidence boost.

She hadn’t known she would enjoy it, hadn’t known it would be worth taking this new, improved version of Rhys for a spin. But when Fiona falls, she falls completely, and this version is more than capable to catch her when she falls. 

Fiona has never been in the habit of denying herself anything, and this...dance Rhys is no different. She indulges when she wants, how she wants, and Rhys allows her to stay, however temporary and flighty she makes herself. Fiona used to think Rhys was a fool for allowing himself to be used so thoroughly, with little to no reward, but now Fiona wonders if Rhys isn’t calling a bluff himself: a call in the poker game that is their little dalliance, to see just how long Fiona will stay before she just can’t leave.

Rhys kisses her again, twists his hips just right, and Fiona’s last coherent thought before morning is how awful it would be, and how dreadfully unfulfilling, to leave such a rare treasure on the other side of the planet.

How awful, to leave something so precious far behind.

 

* * *

 

They clean up at Vaughn’s ex-Hyperion camp, because in addition to being a genius accountant, Vaughn is also a genius accountant with hot water. Fiona basks in the scalding shower for as long as she can, and when the guilt trickles in, Fiona trickles out. 

She catches Rhys in the hallway, having completed the exact same thing. Which...makes sense, logically. Because they’ve been bound together for days with no room for privacy or personal hygiene. Literally.

Still, a freshly showered Rhys is a rare sight, same as anyone on Pandora. Fiona can smell the soap still clinging to him—same as hers, but somehow infinitely more enticing when it’s coming in the direction of tall, pale, and nerdy.

Sometimes Fiona loathes her taste in men, honestly.

Rhys’ clothes must have been cleaned some hours before; he’s back in his all black attire, sans tie and two buttons.

Before it was easy enough to speculate the lack of strict professional attire was due to his capture, but in the dim light of the communal hallway, there is no one to dictate Rhys’ new fashion sense except Rhys himself. 

Which...surprises Fiona more than it ought to. She’s losing her mind over a goddamn tie, for Christ’s sake. What’s next, she going to stencil his tattoos, too? 

Fiona averts her gaze. She’s _over_ this.

“Hey,” Rhys calls, and there he is: her favorite corporate bastard, the man she thought she could go her entire life going without. Funny, how life makes a mess of well-laid plans.

“Still no tie,” Fiona blurts, because she is actually an idiot.   

“What? Oh.” Rhys looks down at himself. Touches his chest where a tie would be. Fiona resolutely does not glance at his torso, still glistening with water.

Rhys shrugs, inspection complete. “The new Atlas look, I suppose. Going for a more casual approach.”

Fiona swallows. “That’s—it’s good.” She coughs. “Good.”

Rhys nods, his gaze landing on her hands. Fiona feels a spike of sympathy for the awkward position she’s placed Rhys in: uncomfortable and fraught with tension, but pressing forward in the name of civility. 

“New nail polish,” he says, gesturing.

That surprises a laugh out of her. “Ah, yes.” She holds a hand up, aimless. “Thought it was time for a change.”

Rhys smiles, and this time it’s easier to meet his eye, take in the force of sunny optimism and genuine well-wishing. Not that she’s missed it, or anything. “I hear that’s good, sometimes,” he says.

Fiona smiles back. “Sometimes,” she agrees.

There’s a beat of silence in which Fiona resolutely does not know what to say, and definitely not where to look. Rhys looks a lot like he wants to inquire about a subject that is a minor inconvenience but not nearly as intrusive as he thinks it is, like what’s for breakfast in the morning, and Fiona’s patience has just about run dry when Sasha appears around the corner, towel draped across her shoulder.

“Oh, hey Fi,” she greets, cheerful and oblivious as ever, but she winks at Fiona when she saunters by. “Hey, Rhys.” 

“Hello!” Rhys greets, overly formal, and Fiona can’t help snickering at the reappearance of his legendary nerves. Nice to see some things don’t change, after all.

Fiona waits until Sasha rounds the corner before she levels Rhys with a silent eyebrow raise.

Rhys coughs. “Would you like to—I don’t know—get out of here? Catch up properly?”

Of all the questions she’s been harboring, somehow Fiona never expected that particular inquiry to see the light of day—from Rhys, no less. Maybe his nerves were warranted, maybe Fiona had been pondering the exact same thing, but never had the courage to ask. 

In the end, curiosity wins out. Curious to learn this new version of Rhys, curious as to whether the opportunity will lend itself so Fiona can reacquaint herself with his tattoos. 

And so she accepts. Of course she accepts; she’s been saying yes from the beginning, hasn’t she?

“Sure,” Fiona says, and doesn’t miss the way Rhys’ entire body deflates its pressure. “Lead the way.”

Lead her Rhys does, and on the final turn to his makeshift quarters, he takes her hand.

 

* * *

 

The statue is a problem.

Caramel marble and etched in stone, forever a piece of Pandora’s history long after the man himself walked the earth.

If he ever bothered to _walk_ the earth, that is.

Vaughn’s ex-Hyperion followers have carved the jaw, shaded the cheekbones, thinned the hair. The resemblance is uncanny, and unmistakably Jack’s most infamous fanboy. The one currently holed up inside, gorging himself on fame and fortune, just like his predecessors before him.

It’s grotesque, is what it is.

Fiona could ruin it, she supposes. Slap on a new coat of paint, maybe write a nasty message or two. With the right amount of pressure she could topple the statue right into the ground, and wouldn’t _that_ be a satisfying conclusion to this strange duology with Rhys, the Hyperion middle manager.  

It would take quite a lot of effort, though.

“Hey you.”

Fiona spins on her heel. The man himself, in the flesh. He looks better than his hand-me-down stone replica, but that’s no surprise. Fiona had almost gotten used to Rhys’ perpetual good looks, right up until he changed things up on her yet again just to fuck with her internal musings. Just to remind her what _exactly_ she left behind.

Why couldn’t he have been a model, instead? That would have been easy enough to handle. She always dreamt that Rhys would dump Hyperion, but at what cost? Her dreams should have been more specific, or never have been dreams at all. No room for disappointment, that way. No room for yelling matches or blind betrayals or chance encounters. No room for anything but plain old fashioned monotony, simple and boring.

“Hey.” Fiona keeps her voice nonchalant, uninterested. She’s not keen on rehashing their shared history again. Not now, possibly not ever.

“So, I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but—”

Fiona holds up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there.” She catches herself before issuing any nicknames. It’s a close call, closer than she’d like. “We don’t need to do this.”

Rhys has the balls to look offended, the idiot. “Yes, Fiona.” His eyes are firm. Stubborn. “ _We_ do.”

Fiona sighs. It’s late enough the air is cool, goosebumps rising on her skin. “I’m not interested in excuses, Rhys. Or explanations. I’m tired of all the goddamn _stories.”_

Rhys takes a step forward. “I know. Me too. But we’ve come this far, and I just...I wanted you to know. Jack is gone. He’s...destroyed.”

It’s enough an admission to give her pause. “Destroyed?” 

Rhys doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

Fiona hates herself a little for falling for the bait, but… “How?”

Rhys points at his face. His eye. His arm. “Switched them out. It was the only way to guarantee he couldn’t…” He shudders. “That he couldn’t take control again.”

Fiona nods. No amount of talking is going to make the last two years picturesque overnight, and she’s heard enough tall tales to last a lifetime. Still, she respects what he’s trying to do. Respects that he’s trying. Fiona analyzes Rhys’ face with new eyes. “How did you—?” She gestures at his cybernetics, confused.

Rhys looks away. His face hardens, disgust curling his lip. At himself, maybe, or the statue of Jack souring the horizon. “Myself.”

 _Jesus._ “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Rhys kicks at the sand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

Hearing the words she’s been missing soothes the vindictive ache in her chest, but it reopens a different wound, one she didn’t know existed, wider and more terrifying than the first. Her dreams were always the self-righteous sort, justified and deserved, but tearing Rhys down isn’t the grand epiphany Fiona once dreamt it might be. Seeing his face fall apart first hand, watching his pain and remorse transform before her eyes doesn’t fuel her fury. 

It isn’t righteousness anymore. It’s just pain.   

“You did,” Fiona hears herself saying, and it’s the first acknowledgement of any shared history between them. “At Scooter’s, you…” She clears her throat. “You tried.”

Rhys looks just as surprised, but there’s a little hope there, too. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”

Fiona kicks his shin. “It _did_ sound pretty insane, if I recall.”

Rhys laughs, a short burst of pressure released into the air. “Yeah, turns out I am kind of the idiot you always suspected me to be.”

Fiona smiles, and doesn’t confirm or deny the admission. It’s both true and false, Fiona sees that now, and it’s...good, to clear the air. To know it’s just Rhys under those clothes, beneath those eyes, in those upgrades. It’s Rhys who is Atlas, Rhys who updated their privacy policy. Rhys who reached out to find her, years after Fiona stopped looking. 

And maybe that’s what makes the words easier to say. To confess, if only to herself. 

 _Yes,_ Fiona thinks, _but you’re my idiot._

 

* * *

 

They make it inside the dilapidated building and about ten seconds of modest privacy before they lunge straight for the throat.

Fiona starts.

“Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ”

Rhys doesn’t explode, but it’s a near thing. His arms veer in different directions: one human, one robotic. “Can you blame me? Look at this, right now! Look at what’s happening!”

Fiona scoffs. “Yeah, because you _lied,_ you Hyperion asshole! I thought I could trust you!”

A silver finger gets pointed her direction. “And I thought I could trust _you!_ You left without me!”

Fiona slaps the offending digit away. “Not intentionally!”

Rhys crosses his arms. “Well, you could have fooled me.”

Fiona mimics him, before realizing her mistake and shoving both arms back down at her sides. “I can’t believe I _didn’t_ think about leaving you, when I had every reason to! You lied your way through the entire operation, and for what? What good did you and your thick cybernetic skull think would come from keeping this from me!” 

“I _wasn’t_ thinking, _obviously,_ because I was scared!”

The room falls silent. 

It’s enough of an admission that it gives Fiona pause: enough to collect her thoughts, enough to realize Rhys is being completely, for once in his life, serious. This is the other half of the honesty he had to offer; this is his future, his life on the line. 

They stare at each other, chests heaving, until Rhys looks away. His cybernetic eye twitches, and Fiona feels the disgusting curl of sympathy.

“Scared?” she repeats, quiet.

“Yeah, you heard me.” Except it isn’t winning, because Rhys’ voice is hollow. Like he expected this response all along: the yelling match, the distrust, the blame. And why wouldn’t he? Fiona doesn’t trust easy, this is common fucking knowledge, and that pearl of truth doesn’t allow a lot of wiggle room for people to trust her, either. “I knew what you’d think of me, if you knew. And hell if I wasn’t having those same doubts myself.”

“You’re still yourself, Rhys,” Fiona snipes, but after the words are out even she doubts their validity.

And Rhys, damn him, knows it. “Do you really believe that?” he says, and walks away.

It’s funny, Fiona thinks. Between her lucky bullet, her emergency exits, her escape plans, some part of her always believed she would be the one to walk away.

Funny, she thinks, that it would have hurt much less if she did.

 

* * *

 

There’s no tie.

A silly first thought, but a thought nonetheless.

The thought is temporarily overpowered by the smug satisfaction of watching Rhys get dragged through the desert, even if her own kidnapped predicament means she was in the same position a few short hours before. She attempted to escape her bonds the instant the stranger looked away, of course, but now the failed attempt almost seems worth it, if it means seeing Rhys again. 

She just...didn’t think the stranger was serious, didn’t think her message would actually _work._ She didn’t think the rumors circulating about Atlas making a comeback meant _Rhys_ making a comeback. Didn’t think they were one in the same, didn’t think the bludgeon of guilt she’s been carrying could have been gone and buried if she’d but wandered back in those familiar front doors.  

Of course, Rhys being back raises more questions than answers. How Jack is doing, for one, and if Rhys even exists anymore, for two. How he made it off the space station, for three, and why the hell he never writes, for four.

Fiona has had a fair amount of time to think about this little reunion. She has a _list._

“Nice haircut,” she starts on, because she was always the mature one.

“Nice hat,” Rhys retorts, dry as the desert.

“It _is_ a nice hat!”

Which, inevitably, leads to an afternoon filled with childish insults and poorly disguised pain, but it’s a lot easier to analyze this new, strange version of Rhys if she can do it through narrowed eyes. 

He’s still annoyingly tall and infuriatingly handsome, which makes her job of loathing his existence that much more difficult. If Rhys was a shell of his former self, somehow incapacitated or ugly or stupid, she would have an easier time reconciling past and present. But his new attire looks good, his haircut improved—even his boots are more fashionable, even if Fiona knows they’re hiding a hideous new pair of socks underneath. He’s still a genius, capable vault hunter, showcased by his ease in rebuilding a long-dead empire from the ground up.

So all that leaves is...Jack. 

Fiona doesn’t want to ask about it, because she doesn’t want to know. She does, but she doesn’t. She settles on calling him a lying jackass, and the hurt buried in between the lines is scarily close to the truth. The stranger intercedes before things get too ugly, and it’s just as well. If their kidnapper insists on recreating history, then Fiona will get her answers soon enough. She can be patient.

She _can._

Fiona glances over at Rhys, intended to be a brief onceover, and discovers Rhys is looking at her, too. They both glance away, caught, nonchalant and ungraceful. Fiona’s fingers clench into fists.

She can _do this._

She can all but feel Rhys smirking beside her, and Fiona rolls her eyes before jabbing him in the stomach for good measure. Rhys’ returning flinch is mild, and together they fall into stride, side by side exploring the lost remnants of their past. Fiona can’t help feeling the impending doom that maybe it’s a trinket best left buried, like her so-called attempts at transforming herself from two-bit criminal into professional vault hunter. Some dreams just don’t come true, and some histories are best left in the fading sun. What are the chances retelling history will make its imprint kinder than the open, gaping wound at the start? What are the chances Rhys won’t leave, when that’s all anyone on Pandora ever does? Die, double-cross, or disappear?

Fiona looks down at her boots: worn and faded brown leather, but unmistakably hers. She watches her footprints in the sand, her pace dejected and lonely, and part of her—the worst part—hates Rhys just a little bit more for fucking up her life so thoroughly. She can feel his eyes on her, a question, and Fiona only looks back to spite him and his glorified so-called redemptive arc. He got everything he wanted, didn’t he? She didn’t ever matter, did she? Figures the instant she trusts a Hyperion company man he turns around and stabs her in the back. There’s no point hiding the scar: if it’s not going to matter anyway, what’s the point in hiding the band-aid?

Rhys looks confused, the idiot. Confused and hesitant, like he isn’t sure what to make of this reunion or his reception. Must be tough, seeing the collateral damage of your decisions first hand. Well, good. He deserves a swift kick in the ass and a reminder of all he left broken and shattered in his wake, in that precise order.

Fiona focuses straight ahead. _Eyes on the prize,_ Felix always said, and Fiona was always his favorite. Never mind how little the title mattered, if it ever mattered at all. Never mind he left her behind to rot, too. 

The worst part about meeting your arch nemesis-turned-business-partner, Fiona decides, is there’s a fucked up part of her that still _wants_ Rhys. The old version, dipped in nostalgia and betrayal, forever at odds with the pulse of her heart. There’s a part of her that misses _her_ memory, tainted though the image may be. But that’s just it, isn’t it: the picture is still fresh in her mind, crystal clear. She told herself she was stronger than this, that time had dealt its hand and she accepted the cards.

And yet.

The worst part is, she misses the tie the most.

She doesn’t want to think too hard about what that means.  

 

* * *

 

How many times had she thought about sending this message? 

Dozens. Hundreds. Fiona has started and deleted this intercept more times than she can count, but she’s never had the courage to press that infuriating red button mocking her cowardice with four distinct letters, complete with horrible font and blinking monotonously. _Send._ Well, having a gun shoved at her back solved the problem nicely. Imagine what Fiona could accomplish with this stranger around, forcing her to confront her own issues. If it weren’t for the horrendous amount of duct tape, Fiona might find the entire gig therapeutic.

But alas, gun or no gun, it doesn’t stop the wave of ever-increasing doubt. It’s what stopped her before, and it’s what stops her now. Like a pool of quicksand, pulling her under, suffocating her resolve.

Fiona used to wonder, sometimes, how the message would go. How she would start. What she would ask. Where was he, was he okay, the basics. Then there were the more intricate questions. _Will you come back? Do you miss me?_ And from there the investigation become thoroughly under-handed and vaguely hurtful: _Did you find what you were looking for, you lying Hyperion asshole?_

Fiona’s still not sure she wants the answer to that one, and it’s far too pathetic besides. It’s too transparent for a single echo transmit, that’s for damn sure, and not at all intended for a thirty party to read over her goddamn shoulder.

Though said third party was strangely...forgiving when it came to the invitation in question. “It needs to be real,” the stranger had said, and that was his only instruction. “It needs to be you. No one else.”

A peculiar choice of words. There was wisdom there, but not distinctly not Pandoran. No one on Pandora would know whether Fiona was bluffing or telling the truth, but more importantly, no one would care. No one but the stranger with a rifle poised at her spine...and the Atlas CEO she’d been tasked to find. 

Fiona looks at her captor. Tall, but not abnormally so. Firm, but not harsh. Honest, but not too honest. Forthright, but reserved. It’s a perplexing combination of features, and just alien enough to make her wonder if her captor knows more than most. If his information is sound.

Could it be true? Could Rhys _actually_ be out there? Could this man have found him, where Fiona had failed? Had her own emotional turmoil blinded her to the truth, had her cowardice halted and murdered whatever shred of evidence she hoped to find? What did this stranger uncover, to invigorate his quest? How had his search prevailed, where Fiona’s had faltered?

How many times had she been here, in this exact spot? How many times had she drafted the message, and how many times had she failed to complete those three simple words? What would have happened if she did? Would it matter? Would it actually have made a difference?

“Now,” the stranger says, a threat.

Fiona breathes. In and out, three steady beats. She hits  _send._

It’s the first time she’s pressed a key alone in two years. It’s first time Rhys wasn’t there to press it with her.

 

* * *

 

Fiona checks her mail. Twice a day, every day, for two weeks.

Nothing.

Not a single echo, not a single transmit. Not even goddamn junk mail. For all intents and purposes, Fiona has disappeared from the records. Word must have gotten out she skipped town, skipped the _planet,_ so the buyers stopped knocking. Friends stopped calling. And business colleagues turned romantic partners… 

Well. Turns out they’re not great at keeping tabs, either.

Of course, Rhys could be dead. He could have blown when Helios did, he could have floated away on a piece of shrapnel just like Scooter. Just like a lot of people, and most of them good. Rhys could have died on the space station he so adored, in the vast void of space that didn’t love him back, with Jack in his brain and Hyperion at his back. It should be good riddance, Fiona thinks. It should be the sweet, righteous vindication she’s been vivaciously fighting for since she was a preteen.

And yet.

Fiona blinks down at the sorry excuse of a holocomputer, with the piss-poor excuse of a connection. _No new messages,_ the terminal reads, and Fiona wonders, however obliquely, if she should try.

She’s never been one to reach out first, and she’s never been one to bet on a losing horse. She’s good at shielding herself and protecting her kin, which is exactly why you’ll see her picture on the wanted posters and not Sasha’s. Fiona puts herself in the line of fire just fine, but that isn’t the same thing as reaching out. It doesn’t equate to mending bridges, or offering an open hand, or whatever is the bullshit equivalent of _friends_ these days.

She doesn’t even know where she would send the echo, and she’s not about to transmit an open-ended inquiry across all of Pandoran space. Fiona doesn’t have the luxury of time or anonymity; if she chooses to reach out, she’s only got one shot. 

“Hey lady, quit hoggin’ the queue,” someone bellows from behind the line.

Fiona sighs and logs out. Another day, another dollar.

Another sunset with no one to share it with.

 

* * *

 

The worst part is, Fiona saw this coming.

This is why dreams shouldn’t come true. This is why con artists don’t travel like circuses, this is why business partners don’t stay _partners_ for long. This is why money ruins everything, this is why greed drives people apart. Even family, even friendships.

Especially friendships.

Fiona’s final thought before her escape pod plummets back into Pandora’s atmosphere is that it should be a more beautiful sight, to watch Hyperion fall apart.

She was always too sentimental for her own good. Every time her softer side comes out to play life always nips right back at her backside, and today is no different. Even when she knows she shouldn’t, Fiona can’t stop herself from wishing she would’ve had a chance to go back for him. To save him. Even if it meant exploding on that too-clean yellow and white star, it would have been worth it. Maybe it’s closure talking, maybe it’s selfish greed. Maybe Fiona wants to slap Rhys in his too-pretty face, but either way, anger at someone living is so much better than resentment at someone dead.

Fiona spins the barrel in her palm, watches the flash of elemental magic twirl in the chamber. The funny thing is, for a moment there, she believed Athena. Believed Rhys. Believed she was becoming someone different, someone stronger. Someone who could pull off a con and save her loved ones, too. For a moment there, she thought the definition of family had widened, like the flowers of a petal: one for each member of her motley crew.

Turns out Fiona is just as deluded as everyone else on Pandora. Turns out everyone on this goddamn planet is looking out for one thing—themselves—and Fiona was one hell of a fool for forgetting that pearl of wisdom for even five minutes. Turns out that’s all the time it took for her to fall. Hook, line, and sinker.

The chamber slows its spin, and the final curve rests on fire. Bright orange and burning, the engraving an intricate, beautiful design. Fiona runs a finger along the barrel, but she doesn’t turn to look out the back port. She can’t. In the claustrophobic cabin of the escape pod, the only truth Fiona can admit to is the last visceral desire she has left, a reminder staring her in the face. The confession is as pathetic as it is lonely, but a little morbidity is warranted, perhaps, when the major corporation who destroyed your livelihood and stole your heart is falling apart in bits of shrapnel and death. The resulting explosion is too close for comfort, rattling the southside window with so much turbulence the resulting shatter may very well kill her, too. 

Fiona closes her eyes. She sighs. The truth.

Jack was part of Rhys the entire time. And Fiona wishes she had the chance to say goodbye.

She’s always been robbed of them, always been left behind. Except this time she’s the one doing the leaving, and this time the fire of her least favorite world-conquering corporation exploding into oblivion isn’t pretty. 

This time, the fire just burns.

 

* * *

 

It was real.

The whole goddamn _time,_ it was real.

Fiona runs through corridor after corridor, door after door. She hacks mainframe after mainframe, computer after computer. She climbs a walking deathtrap of a ladder, she forces open the hatch, only to fall straight on her ass not five seconds later into a squishing dumpster full of blood and guts.

“Rhys!” she yells, again and again. She tries all the channels, knocks down every barrier. She’ll be damned if she gives up on him now. There will be time for hurt feelings and yelling matches later—something they’ve already mastered, if their prior disagreements are anything to go by—but for now, there’s literally a ticking time bomb thanks to Handsome Jack invading Rhys’ skull and if _that_ isn’t incentive to cut ties with Hyperion and make a daring getaway, Fiona doesn’t know what is.

“Fiona,” Sasha says, and she has that tone. The _why would you bother, he’s not worth crying over,_ after Felix left. The _it’s you and me, there’s no time for anyone else,_ when the suitcase exploded and there was only one bike left. The _you’re deluding yourself, there’s nothing here,_ when their childhood house was found empty.

Fiona doesn’t know how, out of the two of them, Sasha became more of a cynic. That’s not how baby sisters should be raised. It should be on Fiona’s shoulders, it should be her burden to bear. But right now she can’t think straight, she can’t _breathe,_ and there’s still five minutes left, which means there’s still a chance for her to—

“Fi, he’s trapped up there. You heard the intercom, Jack’s got him.” Fiona keeps prying at the metal with a crowbar. It’s too slick from the blood, and normally Fiona would balk at the _thought_ of standing in this room, let alone daring to crawl through it, but adrenaline is one hell of a gift.

“ _Fiona.”_

“We’re _not_ leaving him here, Sash.” She stands, hands on her hips. “This isn’t up for debate.”

Sasha glares, crosses her arms. Fiona stares right back.

Seconds tick by, seconds they can’t afford to lose. Fiona watches some of the resilience fade from Sasha’s expression, until her face smooths into something resembling pity.

If there’s one thing Fiona has always detested, it’s goddamn _pity._

“Look, I know you two had…” Sasha takes a step forward, and only flinches a little when Fiona grips the crowbar tighter in her palms. “A _dalliance,_ if you will. But we can’t rescue anyone, Fiona, if we can’t even _leave._ ” Her hands reach out to rest on Fiona’s elbows. She carefully avoids the blood.

“Let’s find a way out of here first. We’ll come back for him. I swear it, Fi. We’ll try.”

Fiona’s about to refuse on principle. It’s a dumb idea, Fiona would know, because she makes up these types of bullshit compromises on the fly all the time. Usually with Sasha, to calm her nerves. It’s almost hilarious to be on the receiving end of her own advice from her baby sister, except the situation is anything but wry.

But then Jack’s voice blares over the intercom, a great bellowing echo from beyond the grave that will surely haunt her dreams—that is, if he doesn’t manage to kill her outright first. “Ah, kiddos, it is _good_ to be back. Who wants pizza? Do you want some pizza? Need to keep that energy up so we can hunt ourselves some treasonous bastards, huh? Whaddya say?”

Fiona closes her eyes. Sasha’s fingers squeeze, two reassuring pressure points on her elbows. “It’ll be okay.”

It’s quite possibly the dumbest thing she could ever say.

Fiona opens her eyes. “No.” She drops the crowbar, and starts walking. Smashes the nearest console, spares a thought to think it would be easier to break through security with a metal bar instead of her fist. No matter, the blood from her knuckles will blend with the rest of Jack’s victims soon enough. Tears prick at her eyelids when the metal doors swish open and Fiona turns her back on her crew. It used to be easier than this, to leave someone behind. It used to be easier, to walk away.

“It won’t.”

 

* * *

 

They’re about to step aboard Scooter’s hopefully-not-a-death-trap of a spaceship when Rhys grabs her with a hand to the elbow.

“Hey.” Rhys leads her away from the others, hiding them behind an important-looking control panel. It’s comprised of tan and white sheet metal, and there’s approximately one hundred and fifty wires poking out of its duct-taped compartmental hold. Fiona idly wonders if she should ask Janey for a quick inspection before they take off. That many important-looking objects sticking out can’t be good. “Can I borrow you for a quick second?”

Fiona quirks an eyebrow in the direction of Rhys’ hand locked on her arm. “Looks like you already are.”

“Right.” Rhys releases her arm to stare at his ridiculous-looking boots. They’ve earned a few scrapes and bruises along the way, but they’re just as hideous as ever. They blend in a little more now, though, with a fresh coat of orange dust flirting at the seams. Rhys closes his eyes and breathes in deep. “The reason I knew about the Gortys upgrade being Jack’s office. You need to know…”

Fiona almost wants to laugh. A few short weeks ago she _would_ have laughed, for no other reason than Rhys knowing something so obscurely Hyperion-related is basic, common knowledge. It’s just who Rhys is: he hacks mainframes, he upgrades cybernetics, and he wins round after round of Hyperion trivial pursuit without breaking a sweat. Add in a dash of low-key obsession with Handsome Jack and you have a complete picture of Rhys, the Hyperion prodigy boy: computer nerd extraordinaire.

But the Fiona now has grown, at least somewhat, so she keeps her poorly held humor to herself. At least vocally. For the moment. “Yeah?”

Rhys closes his eyes again. Says, “It was because Jack told me.”

Fiona does laugh, then. Is this his idea of a prank? “Haha, very funny. What, you’re saying he’s in your brain or something?” 

“Yes.”

Fiona blinks. Rhys isn’t laughing, and he isn’t joking either. Fiona knows firsthand: his poker face is terrible. He _does,_ however, look like someone just murdered his favorite pet skag when he wasn’t looking. Or even....like it’s over, like this is the last conversation they’ll ever have. Which is ridiculous for a number of reasons. If anything, Fiona thought he would be thrilled to return to home base. If anything, Fiona is the one who should be looking nervous, because she knows full well Rhys could just stay on that constructed moon of a space station and she’d never see him again.

Suddenly Fiona misses the warmth of Rhys’ skin on hers for no reason at all. “I don’t know what that means.”

Rhys sighs, like the words pain him. “There was a top secret program, I didn’t even know it existed until I got down here to Pandora. Nothing big came of it at first, but now…”

Rhys falters, still struggling with the weight of his words, but to Fiona he may as well be speaking computer code. She wishes she could just pat him on the back and laugh it off, but there’s clearly something happening here, something just outside of her peripheral…

“Hey,” Scooter calls around the corner, “I don’t mean to intrude er nothin’, but we need to get this bird in the air like _yesterday,_ or the day before that even, because it’s liable to fall apart if we don’t get her where she needs to go, ya hear?”

Fiona waves. “Got it, Scoot, thanks.”

“‘Course girl, anything for you!”

Fiona sighs and turns back to Rhys. She puts her hand on his elbow, a makeshift embrace. “You were saying?” 

Rhys glances down at her hand, and he looks lost. Torn between worlds. He looks like he’s in agony, and Fiona is one half of that which tortures him. Fiona never would have guessed it was possible for Rhys to miss something before it’s gone. She never would have expected he was capable of this range of motion, but then again, Fiona’s preconceived notions haven’t been true for a while. Maybe they were never true at all. 

“Nothing,” Rhys says, and smiles like he just saw a ghost. Which, based on his bizarre explanation of a top secret program, maybe he did. “Just me getting caught up in my own head again. But listen, if this whole thing goes south,” his thumb wraps around hers, “I want you to know it was a really good ride, Fiona.”

Fiona narrows her eyes. “Why does it feel like you’re saying goodbye, cowboy?”

“I’m not,” Rhys promises, but Fiona knows that tone. She knows that look. She’s been in this position more times than she can count, and usually she’s the one making empty promises she can’t keep. “Just in case.”

“We’re in this together, you know that, right?” she says, and damn if it isn’t the truth. Somehow Rhys the Hyperion middle manager has become part of that inclusive club of three, and that means Fiona will single handedly pull his robotic ass out of the fire, whatever it takes.

“Yeah,” Rhys says, quiet. “Yeah, I know.”

Fiona looks into those eyes: one brown, one blue, and just as conflicted as the man himself. Fiona wonders if he really does comprehend, if he really does _know_ the weight her words carry. She wonders if he knows she’s devoted, too. It isn’t a one-way street; Rhys isn’t alone in his feelings and his dreams. Everyone on Pandora has their loyalties, their betrayals, and their cons, but somehow Rhys managed the greatest trick of all. Theirs does not a romantic fairy tale make, but even so the story still transformed from a one-note con for glory and riches into a multi-faceted tale about a Hyperion asshole who managed a little thieving of his own. 

“Come on,” Fiona says, and swipes her forefinger beneath Rhys’ chin, a quick motion. “Chin up. We have a ride to catch.”

Fiona sets about seeing Janey for that inspection sweep, and when she passes by, hears Scooter scream from the cockpit, “I heard that! Catch a _ride!”_

Fiona laughs, wondering if there’s actually a chance in hell they can get away with this and come out winning, too. Maybe, maybe not, but either way Fiona wants to bask in the ridiculous glory of it all. She feels reckless and carefree, but when she smiles back at Rhys, she sees a man in a hard-pressed suit, staring out at nothing and muttering to himself in angry, short bursts. The picture is an eerie one, fraught with concern and more than a little trepidation, and Fiona’s excitement freezes in her bones. She can’t shake the foreboding voice whispering in her ear, wondering if there was a chance Rhys was telling the truth.

She can’t help but wonder if his words held deeper meaning, too.

 

* * *

 

They’re on a mission to the stars. 

It’s what Sasha always wanted, what Fiona always dreamed about. Finally, they’re on their way to earning enough money and escaping this shitty hellhole. Finally, they’re on their way to creating a fresh start.

And yet. 

Sure, she’s daydreamed about traveling to Helios, blowing it to hell and back, then escaping with her life and a suitcase full of cash, but in reality? Fiona would love nothing more than to stay in her secluded little rectangle of desert known as Hollow Point and leave well enough alone. 

And she knows, with a instinctual cramping ache, just what that means.

Because right now, Fiona needs Rhys to become the bureaucratic asshole narcissist she always assumed him to be. Right when she wishes he wasn’t.

So the night before their great adventure Fiona quarantines herself to a cliffside view, a secluded section of Pandoran garbage, and sulks over her lot in life. 

It’s a chilly night, an evening wind making the night air brisk, so Fiona draws her knees to her chest and sets about making herself as small as possible. She rocks back and forth, to and fro, ignoring the cold for the stubborn sake of taking in the wild desert she calls home. She’s never really taken the time to appreciate its beauty before. Pandora is a garbage heap of a planet, to be sure: utterly devoid of life and mostly devoid of people, but there is beauty, too, if one takes the time to look. There’s a rare flower or two along its winding roads and twisting paths, there’s a few birds skittering among the trees that aren’t rakk hives or anything attached to them. That beauty is precious and valuable, not unlike the infamous treasure buried beneath its miles and miles of sand.

Felix taught her how to exploit that treasure, once. He taught her to search and scavenge, to fight and bluff and steal. He taught her every well-honed instinct she knows, but mostly he taught her the skill that involves turning a blind eye and running away.

So why doesn’t she want to now, when it matters? When it leads to bigger heists and greater loot? This could be the take of their lives—for her and Sasha both—the one where Fiona can finally gift her baby sister with the promise of a lifetime: freedom, with no price tag attached. Even if Fiona can’t hold onto that beautiful promise, it’d be enough for Sasha to get out. Truly _out,_ not the Pandoran equivalent of skag shit.

Fiona sighs. There’s always a catch, isn’t there? Something is bound to go awry and Fiona would hate—she would hate to never see this again. This planet of dry trash and alien scavenging is her lifeblood, and she can’t stand the thought of dying—or worse, being incarcerated—on the space station looming in the sky, a dark promise on the horizon that’s haunted her existence for years.

“Hey you.” Rhys looms over her shoulder, a shadow of Hyperion in the flesh.

His presence is a fair share less ominous, at least.

“Hey yourself.” Fiona peeks over her shoulder at him. Half of her expects Rhys to start chattering away, worried about one factor of the mission or the other, but instead he remains silent. Lost in philosophical thought, or allowing Fiona the chance to speak?

Fiona doesn’t expect to take Rhys up on the silent offer, but her mouth opens before she can halt its course. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened, if you hadn’t come down here?”

Rhys seems to take the inquiry as permission; he sits beside her, long legs hanging off the cliffedge, dangling in a languid arc. “Well, sure. All the time.”

Fiona makes a face. “And?”

Rhys laughs, brief and low. “I don’t know. I don’t really _like_ to think about it, because…” He falters, looks up at Helios, bright and twinkling. Up there, the world is never dark.

“Because?” Fiona prompts.

Rhys looks down at his hands. One human, one cybernetic, forever intertwined. “I’m not sure I would like that version of me. I’m not sure…” he flinches, a fracture in his usual composure. “I’m not sure who I would have turned into,” he confesses to his inhuman hand.

Not the answer Fiona was expecting, and also one she didn’t know she needed to hear. “That’s...honest.”

Rhys chuckles, but it’s self-depreciating, brief and sarcastic. “You sound surprised.”

“Because I am.” Fiona hugs her knees tighter. “Thought you were a corporate asshole, remember?”

That seems to do the trick of bringing Rhys out of his funk. He levels her with a look, affectionate but exasperated. “Still, Fiona? Really?” 

Fiona doesn’t look over at him, her smile carefully aimed at the landscape. God, it really does go on for miles. “What can I say? Takes a fair bit of persuading for me to change my mind.” 

Rhys seems to pick up on the hint. He scoots a little closer, close enough Fiona can feel the heat of his thigh lining up carefully next to hers. “And what kind of persuading might be required, exactly?” 

Fiona snorts. She looks over at Rhys; his face is open and honest, but more importantly, near. There are moments, sometimes, when Fiona thinks he’s too goddamn sweet for his own good. Sometimes Fiona doesn’t know how to reconcile the two halves of him: doesn’t know how the boyish charm of this buttoned-up Hyperion lackey can be the same man who owns multiple pairs of ridiculous socks and a plethora of horribly decorated shoes. Maybe he’s just as terrible at shooting his way up the corporate ladder as Fiona is terrible at leaving the ghosts of her past behind. Maybe their lives are all they know, and maybe what they’ve been trained into doesn’t equate to what they’re _good_ at—or what they truly enjoy. 

But Fiona came to this cliffside of solitude to forget such morbid, substantive thoughts. She came here for comfort, and when Rhys leans in, breath hot and body warm, Fiona leeches that sweet nectar for all it’s worth.

Rhys, for his part, soothes every broken, dirty piece.

 

* * *

 

Fiona exits the changing station with a grimace and a sigh. The leather is too tight, the tights are completely impractical, and the shoes are going to leave blisters by the end of the night. That’s not touching the _color,_ which, if there was any doubt the employees of Helios had yet to step foot on Pandora’s sweltering heat of a planet, the dark, crisp undertones of their uniform design put any doubts to rest. Ignorant corporate bastards to the last.

Still, the torture that is Fiona’s disguise is worth the trouble if only for Rhys’ reaction once her heels hit the floor. 

“Wow,” Rhys says, and Fiona can _see_ the moment his jaw hits the floor. “You look...incredible.”

Fiona cocks a hip. “Personal fantasy of yours?”

His mouth closes. “Um…” 

“That’s a yes.” Sasha props a helpful arm along Rhys’ shoulder, despite being a head and a half shorter. “Don’t let me stop your ogling, Hyperion boy. You look hot, sis.”

Fiona irons out her skirt. There’s too many eyes on her, and that means danger in her line of work. It’s possible she’s not cut out for invading Helios proper. “Thanks.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Sasha coughs. “Right, well. I’ll get changed too, then.” She disentagles herself from Rhys, juts her chin at Fiona. “Later, taters.”

“See ya.”

Fiona glances up, catches Rhys’ eye on the downward slope. “So,” she stretches the vowels, feeling every inch the fish out of water caricature she is. “Think it’ll fool them?” 

“Y-yes.” Rhys swallows. “Absolutely, yes. Mmhmm.” 

“Good.” Fiona fiddles with her sleeves. She sneaks another glance at Rhys, tries to pretend she isn’t noticing his newly washed suit under new eyes. “You uh…” she gestures vaguely at his person. “You look good, too.” 

Rhys glances down at himself. His eyebrows hike toward his hairline. “It’s the same outfit.”

It’s Fiona’s turn to swallow. “Well. Still.”

Rhys catches up about the same time his brain visibly skidders to a halt. “Oh! Well.” He presses a hand against his tie. Crisp red and ironed as always. “Thank you.”

This is ridiculous. Stupid. They stare at each other, precious seconds ticking by. Fiona licks her lips, pretends not to notice when Rhys tracks the motion.

“Rhys?”

Rhys snaps at attention. “Yeah?”

Fiona marches forward. Takes his hand. “Come with me.”

Rhys’ returning smile is too smug, too confident for his own good. “Aye aye, captain.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “Rhys?” 

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking.”

 

* * *

 

Fiona is in a spot of trouble. 

She never thought _this_ would be her particular brand of problem, because for the whole of her career it’s been a non-issue. Nonexistent, even. Fiona doesn’t get entangled in personal affairs, because Fiona doesn’t get _tangled,_ period. Full stop. 

It’s a trick of the trade Felix hadn’t even bothered to spell out, so simple was its value and so common its sense. Thieving is a simple business with simple rules, the logic of the occupation tied to straightforward commandments like the holy grail. It’s the one thing con artists have in common with the religious: respect the rules you’re given, and respect the customs you’re taught. 

There’s even one that starts and ends with a single word: _don’t._

Contrary to what one might expect, Fiona is the one who took the words as gospel, where for Sasha the tricks of the trade were just that: circus acts, a performance piece. Fiona doesn’t mind Sasha’s lack of regard for Felix’s traditions; this life was never intended to be anything but temporary for her younger half, and it was always intended as a life sentence for herself.

Some things really are written in black and white.

Point is, there’s a widespread belief amongst thieves that attachments are forbidden. Fiona’s gotten this far by bullshitting her way through randomized issues, one after the other, and since Felix skipped town Fiona has thrown nearly all her self-imposed rules right out the window, but some teachings are so ingrained as to be second nature. 

This _problem,_ she suspects, is one of them.

She certainly understands the wisdom of abstaining. No attachments means no feelings, and no feelings means no bad calls. No bad calls means no bad jobs, and no bad jobs means more money.

Fiona gets it. She does.

It’s surprisingly easy to blame her recent slew of bad decision-making on Felix’s absence, to write off her recent middle-finger streak as a natural consequence of his betrayal. Even after the mess with Gortys and Vallory, with Athena revealing her true intentions; even after acknowledging Felix had his reasons and Fiona may very well see him again one day; even after reconciling Fiona’s past with her future, alone but her right, her _choice,_ Fiona can clearly see: every decision she’s made since Felix disappeared, she’s made for herself.

Now, back in the caravan called home, in the bunker she calls bed, in the land she marks precious, Fiona knows.

It’s want. 

Which is dangerous, maybe. Almost certainly. But it’s also...freeing, in a way. Fiona has never been this liberated, this unencumbered. That’s not to say Felix held her back or locked her future. Fiona’s occupation was always her choice, but she always had eyes at her back. In the wall. On the posters. Everywhere she’s been infamous, relied upon, _responsible._ But with Rhys, she’s nobody. She’s not a big sister, she’s not a caretaker. She’s not even a famous con artist. Rhys has no recollection of her conquests or her failures. He just knows...her. Whoever that is, whatever she looks like.

It’s why Fiona visits his quarters. Why she knocks on the door. It’s _her_ door anyhow, but she still waits. Because she wants the invitation. She craves the choice, the conscious decision.

Because she wants...Rhys. 

And Rhys, bless him, looks just disheveled enough to be charming. To feel real. He’s in his own private space, some of his own walls torn right down, and it’s the final sliver of confidence Fiona needs. It’s a visible, tangible piece of vulnerability in the first three of his buttons undone, in his hair unkempt. His boots are lined, perfectly straight, near the door, poised and ready but off. Tucked away. He’s still beautiful in a dotted and lined, straight-laced superior sort of way, but he’s approachable now. Touchable. Human.

From here, the differences aren’t so straight and narrow. Not so black and white. Here, Fiona sees color. The blue of his shirt. The brown of his eye. The curl of his hair. The faint scars on his skin. Like the flowers of a petal slowly opening to the sun, here Fiona can finally explore the beauty hiding underneath.

Fiona doesn’t wait for a _hello._ Barely registers the fumbling _how do you do._ She recognizes the invitation, and that’s all she needs. A step, then two, then three, one after the other until she’s inside. Her own caravan, but already the room looks different. Felix’s room. Empty, now filled. Slowly, but it’s taking shape. It has life again, and that alteration would have prickled her nerves before, an insult, but it’s...easier now. Because it’s Rhys, maybe, or because it’s hers. Maybe both. Maybe it’s _theirs._

Rhys is looking at her, a question in his gaze, and Fiona wonders how much detail that echo eye holds. Whether it can register a heartbeat, whether it can measure a pulse. Whether it knows what she’s thinking, what she’s craving, what she’s needing.

Fiona’s never been good at asking. Good at giving. Only to Sasha, and even then all Fiona can ever seem to offer is scraps. It might not be enough for Rhys, the man accustomed to more wealth than Fiona’s ever dreamed of, but he’s here, he’s invited her in, so maybe there’s a chance.

She can’t deign herself to ask. Can’t risk the rejection. She’s offering more than she thought possible, more than she ever thought to ask, but even then she can’t get the fucking words out. It would be too much, too fast, too _low,_ and Fiona will be damned if she’s looked down upon for her lack of status, her lack of class. Damn if she’ll ever take someone’s presumption at her morals or her means. Not when all she’s ever known is loneliness. Not when mom died and dad soon followed. Not when there was nothing fucking left for two kids on Pandora, a rotting planet that everyone else left behind, too.

It’s all she can ever do. _Take._ Fiona marches forward, tears pricking her eyes and a quest quivering her lips, but Rhys doesn’t fucking break. He _bends,_ willing and pliable and gentle as clay. His hands are stronger, his torso longer, but he doesn’t use them. All the advantage is at his fingertips, he has every reason to regain control, but he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t use his god given power, and it’s a miracle, it’s perfect, it’s an answer to a question Fiona didn’t know she needed.

Fiona bowls right into him, a whirlwind of aggression and anger and hurt, a volcano erupting at the seams. She backs Rhys into the wall and keeps him there, one hand at his neck and the other on his arm, a shield. She breathes him in, the calm before the storm, but it’s Rhys who surprises them both by leaning in.

It’s a risky move, a calculated risk in this game of cat and mouse they’re playing, but even more surprising is that it’s sweet. Rhys doesn’t move, doesn’t budge, doesn’t push; the only point of contact is their lips and her hands: one gentle, the other a vice grip. 

Fiona gasps, and Rhys leans forward. Her eyes open, his shut. Even with his eyes closed, Rhys is entirely open, entirely honest. He’s too goddamn naive, and Fiona doesn’t want to taint that good nature with her own ill filth. She’s already destined to betray her sister by shipping her off somewhere new, and Fiona can’t chance the same fate happening twice. She can’t risk the consequence, the price. 

Fiona pushes Rhys back by the shoulders. Rhys backs off, eyes expectant. She knows that look; he’s expecting rejection, or maybe betrayal. He’s been on the receiving end of a deal gone wrong, and he has yet to hold a solid victory in his hands. The thought that Fiona could be that victory for him, the thought that he could want her, crave her, _need_ her just as badly is… 

Fiona kisses him. Fierce and wild, with every ounce of emotion she has. It’s all she has left, at day’s end: empty rooms and empty promises and a pocketful of dreams. All she has is a broken heart, a smattering of rules, and a dusty caravan. Fiona doesn’t have a future, but she does have a present, and she hopes it’s enough. She hopes she’ll remember this when she joins those crazed vault hunters on their never-ending escapade, the relentless pursuit of treasure and fame.

And oh, it would be worth it, to remember this. To remember Rhys’ fingers in her hair, curling behind her ear. To remember his breath across her neck, his teeth nipping at her shoulder. To remember his fingers along her spine, curving around her hip. He pulls her closer, invites her in, and Fiona meets him move for move, piece for piece. He doesn’t complain when her kisses border on aggressive, or when her hands boss him around. If Fiona is wildfire, then Rhys is the water smoothing her over, calming her bloodstream. Even as she straddles a leg across his hip, even when his fingers skate along her thigh, even as he whispers her name in her ear just so, Fiona knows.

She won’t be forgetting _this._

 

* * *

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Fiona doesn’t think. She grabs the red tie and ducks for cover, a yelping Rhys hot on her heels. “I’m getting us out of here.”

Rhys stumbles over his own two feet, but in his defense Fiona’s a good foot shorter and she _did_ just drag him across half the desert on a planet he’s never visited before. Still, he should be used to her wild antics by now. It’s a learning curve. Steep, but manageable. 

Rhys is still fumbling through his footwork when Fiona releases his tie. He rubs his neck, feigning injury. “No offense, fearless leader, but this doesn’t look like much cover.”

Fiona peers around the corner, scouting for guards or weirdly intricate Atlas defenses. They always were touchy about people stealing their tech. Well, touchier than normal, anyway. “You gotta have an open mind about these things, Rhys. Expand your horizons and all that.”

She can _hear_ Rhys’ mind ticking away, contemplative. “Maybe. Hey, I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.” His voice is giddy, which means it carries, which means attracting the guard smoking idly near the east exit.

Fiona drags a belligerent Rhys down a perpendicular hallway, plastering herself to his front when the room turns out to be two sizes too small, less an adjacent hallway and more of a dead end storage closet. Rhys’ mouth opens to complain, the idiot, but Fiona halts him mid-grumble with a hand over his mouth. “Shut it, hotshot. There’s a guard just around that corner.”

Rhys blinks down at her hand. He squirms a little. “Stop it,” she hisses.

“Oh, I’m _sorry,_ ” Rhys drolls, and she should have known her sarcastic streak would rub off sooner or later. If Rhys starts picking up all her bad habits, Fiona’s going to have a real problem on her hands. “You could have picked a better spot, is all I’m saying.”

Fiona glares. Rhys stops squirming, but that doesn’t mean he stops complaining. “I probably could have hacked the terminal, you know. Or the robots, even. We could have run away, disappeared before Gortys was activated, done it on our own time, in our own way—” 

Fiona steps forward. Lays a hand high on Rhys’ chest, nearing his collarbone. The press of her fingers is firm, which is a feat in and of itself, considering she would love nothing more than to strangle him and his stupid curly hair.

“Rhys,” she says, faux sweet. She tips her face forward, nearing his ear. “I’m going to need you to stop. Talking.”

Fiona can sense the exact moment the puzzle pieces click together: Fiona’s proximity, the guard outside. The piece of precious technology lying on the floor. Sasha. August. Vallory. They’re in a precarious situation, holding onto the last shred of collateral they have left, and if they get caught, it’s game over. No more Pandora, no more upper management, no more money.

Rhys gulps. His fingers curl around her back, a barely there tug. “Vasquez,” he whispers in her ear.

Fiona shivers. “Here?” she whispers back.

“It has to be.”

Fiona pulls back, looks Rhys in the eye. He’s so goddamn tall it’s almost impossible to make out his expression. There’s a wild piece of hair that’s shaken loose from Sasha’s impromptu styling, a vain attempt at warming Fiona’s perception. It hadn’t worked earlier, the makeover too uptight, too _slick_ to be anything but weak desperation. It had worked earlier, but now…

Now maybe Fiona gets the hype. Moxxi’s girls always had a thing for Hyperion men, a peculiar fantasy Fiona never indulged in. She’s never been one for the superficial, despite the money stored at her fingertips and up her sleeves. A point of hypocrisy, perhaps, but never a point of contention Fiona felt the need to justify. No one ever asked, anyway, and there was never a story to tell besides.

Now, though, there just might be.

“Okay, we should be clear,” Rhys whispers, his echo eye fading into neutral blue. 

Fiona clears her throat. Wonders if she can goad Rhys into a brief bout of unprofessionalism in the name of one act of rebellion against the other. She has a hunch it might be up his alley, but she’d hate to have misread the situation. This type of distraction and wiles is more Sasha’s game; Fiona is more about using her wits and her guns to evade the seedier, flirtier aspects of foul play.

Rhys could be fun, though. Rhys could even be _great._  

“Your outfit is ridiculous,” Fiona says, nonsensically, plucking an invisible piece of lint off Rhys’ shoulder.

God, she really needs to work on her tact. Rhys is a terrible influence.

Rhys blinks down at her again, before his brain visibly gets with the program. His face breaks into a slow smile. “This...is about my socks, isn’t it?” 

Fiona hates him, really, but damn if god didn’t bless him with some excellent bone structure. Those cheekbones are an art form all unto themselves. Fiona hooks an arm around his neck, resists the impulse to bury a hand in his hair. “It’s about your everything,” she whispers back, going straight for his ear.

Rhys’ fingers tighten around her backside. “Didn’t know we were issuing compliments. I can return the favor, if you…”

Fiona smiles, finally looking him in the eye. “I’ll pass.”

Rhys doesn’t look too upset, if only because now he has easy access to her lips. His gaze falls, hers does too, and it’s horrible timing, awful really, but she’ll berate herself for the slip-up later. Later, when she can recall in perfect detail what Rhys’ mouth tastes like. Later, when she can write off this impulsive attraction as just a phase, a brief dalliance with curiosity, now sated and satisfied. Later, when she can pretend Rhys’ presence isn’t as intoxicating as his slender fingers dancing across her back. 

Gortys moves. Or a piece of tech on the shelf moves. Something falls, or otherwise startles them ten feet apart. Rhys runs a hand through the fine hairs at the back of his neck, and Fiona smoothes down her hand-me-down blazer despite the article of clothing being the same natural disaster it’s been for years.

“Did you—?” Rhys looks skittish, which is fair. Atlas tech is creepy at best, neutral at worst.

“No, but something most definitely did.”

“Okay, good. So I’m not going crazy. Check.” 

They stare at the floor, at the wall. Anything but each other. 

Rhys cracks first.

“I’m just, gonna…” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, trails off, and disappears around the corner in prompt order. Fiona blows out a deep breath and backs into the nearest wall. Stares at the ceiling, tries to calm her heart. It doesn’t work, of course.

There’s a distinct possibility Fiona may be in a spot of trouble.

 

* * *

 

Pandora at nightfall is a dream.

A dangerous dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Without the sun beating down at full strength, causing blood blisters and skin cancer; without its radioactive rays casting everything in a murky orange haze; without its reflective beams shining too bright, too hot, too lasting to be anything but comfortable; after the sun goes down, Pandora is a perfectly cooled, perfectly hospitable nuclear home.

So too is Pandora’s nightlife a life unto its own: filled with bandits, raiders, and psychos, each hungry and set loose on the prowl. Those insane enough to grapple with Pandora’s gangs are wise enough to know its psychopaths will attack no matter the time of day, so you may as well be comfortable: wait for nightfall, then go treasure hunting in the cool, dim lighting of dusk. The only other rule is a constant, obligatory one: always, _always_ carry a gun.

If the pitfalls don’t get you, then the wildlife will. If a bandit doesn’t kidnap you, then a psycho with a boomerang just might. And if you’re lucky enough to avoid both, then time will wrap its fingers around your throat and suck the soul from your brain. There’s a reason so few of Pandora’s residents ever truly leave, and there’s a reason its treasure is so voraciously valuable; Fiona’s seen plenty of crazed treasure trovers driven mad by the insatiable nature of their quest, just like she knows it’s all connected to the purple hues underground, a ghostlike whisper named eridium.

It’s all circular, life always is, and Fiona is merely a piece of the puzzle. A cog in the wheel. A pawn in a much larger game. She knows and she doesn’t mind, not really, not if it means finally getting her baby sister off this rock. Onto a starship freighter, another planet, a different caravan. Fiona doesn’t know why the image is always separate from herself, always a different jagged piece; maybe because Fiona knows too much, seen too much, inhaled too many breaths of radioactive oxygen to ever really _leave._ For better or worse Pandora is in Fiona’s bloodstream, and a part of her knows it can never really come back out. 

It’s why the nightlife calls to her, she thinks. Why it intoxicates her so. Why the fumes of the neighboring psycho racetrack is a sight to behold, why its taste echoes in her mouth. The cars, the gas, the track, the fire. It’s a flaming shitshow, of course it is, but it’s still extraordinary. Beauty, amidst the chaos.

It’s exactly Pandora’s style, in a way.

Fiona rounds the corner of the caravan to find Rhys crouched along the roadside, weight leaned back on his haunches so his knees don’t hit the sand. His left hand is outstretched past his leg, and his palm cradles a dusting of sand.

Rhys is quickly becoming the strangest conglomeration of puzzle pieces Fiona has ever had the misfortune of meeting. Good thing he’s cute, so she gets something positive out of the deal. “Hey.”

Rhys spins, disturbed gravel swirling around his boots. He doesn’t look surprised to see her, which makes sense, given that it’s her caravan he’s riding, dining, and sleeping in, it’s just that...she rather expected him to be jumpy. Less than a week on Pandora and Fiona’s no-nonsense facade has already cracked. She must be slipping.

“Hey yourself,” he says, filtering the sand through his hand.

Fiona leans back against the edge of the caravan, one foot crossed over the other. “Watching the races?” 

Rhys nods, but he doesn’t look back at her. “It’s...very fascinating. For a planet comprised of anarchy and the utter lack of established rules, the races are...surprisingly complex.” 

Fiona raises an eyebrow. After a few seconds of flat silence, Rhys glances back. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Just an outside perspective. I’ll be shutting up now.” 

Fiona smiles. “You’re not wrong, exactly. The psychos may be insane, but they were human, you know. They still enjoy the thrill of the race the same way you and I do. Maybe even more.” 

“Yeah. It’s just hard to imagine becoming... _that._ ” Fiona doesn’t have to be standing alongside him to know Rhys tracks the movement of one psycho in particular, rolling across the hood of his vehicle like a skag rolling in mud. It’s easy to become accustomed to the anarchy Pandora inevitably produces, and it’s easy to disassociate the psychos from everyone else on the planet. They are their own subspecies, but they’re also...appallingly human. Baseless and desire-driven, sure, but human just the same. 

“I look at it this way: they’re just like you or me, they just feel everything that much stronger. I mean, think about it: they’re basically children with an exceptionally violent streak, who really, _really_ enjoy cars.”

Rhys snorts. “With a low tolerance for impulse control.”

Fiona grins. “Exactly.”

“Well in that case,” Rhys stands, wipes his hands together to remove the excess dirt, “everyone is liable to become a psycho.” 

Fiona shrugs. “Maybe everyone is.”

Rhys does look back now, and his eyes are narrowed. “Come on, Fiona. It’s hard to imagine me willingly peeling someone’s skin from their face.” When Fiona doesn’t budge, he adds, “For _fun._ ” 

But Fiona isn’t biting. “If you were desperate enough, I think you could.”

“Desperate, huh?”

“What else are you doing down here? Stealing an opportunity from your boss, right? How do you classify that as different from what I’m doing? What any of us are doing? You’re right about one thing, Hyperion: you came to the right planet to piss someone off and steal back what’s rightfully yours.”

For the first time since Fiona has known him, Rhys dodges the bullet. “It’s _not_ rightfully anyone’s. That’s the entire point.” 

“Exactly. The rules on Pandora are straightforward, and exceptionally simple: anything is free game, and nothing belongs to anyone.”

Rhys takes a step forward, and there’s a gleam in his eye, a fire that Fiona hasn’t seen before. “Then you aren’t really _free,_ are you?”

And the thing is, he’s right. He’s too right, and he doesn’t even know it. It’s the crux of the issue, the problem with the _one last con_ bullshit Felix had been feeding her and Sasha for months. Fiona’s known for awhile, but she’s never looked the problem straight in the face: if everything goes well, and if the take is huge, then Sasha gets to leave.

But Fiona can’t leave, too. 

“And what about you?” Fiona hates that her voice holds a fraction of its usual velocity, her temper lost in the surprising confidence of Rhys’ shoulders, in his conviction at calling the bullshit the way it really is: ugly, baseless, and wholly human. The fading sunset casts his face half in shadow, half in light, and Fiona can’t look away. She can’t. “You think being a middle manager in a world-conquering corporation grants you any more freedom than me?”

Rhys doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t scamper away. He doesn’t back down. He doesn’t even goddamn smile. His solemnity is its own kind of judgment, a mirror reflecting the ugliest parts of the planet that holds half of Fiona’s heart. “Now who’s calling who inhuman?”

Fiona doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t say that.” 

“No, but you meant it, didn’t you? Whether or not you want to acknowledge it, Fiona, it isn’t Hyperion’s fault that Dahl left your planet to ash. It isn’t Hyperion’s fault the psychos became who they are today. And it’s not Hyperion’s fault that we’re playing clean-up to the mess the last corporation made. Whatever sliver of propaganda you choose to believe, it doesn’t change the fact: Dahl _left_ your planet, and Hyperion came here to fix it.”

Fiona can’t help the knob of rebellion in her spine, making her chin quiver. “Yeah? And how’s that cleanup been going for you so far?”

Rhys sighs, runs a hand down his face. “With different management—”

“And how many _managers_ have you gone through?” At Rhys’ returning eyeroll, Fiona steps forward. “No, really. Tell me Rhys: how has your company changed Pandora for the better after all the destruction Handsome Jack caused?”

Rhys stares back. He’s fuming, she can tell; face red and eyes wild, like the clap of thunder before a storm. 

“Did you know,” Rhys breathes through his nose, voice carefully measured. Fiona thinks he might break a blood vessel or two. “You might single-handedly be _the_ most irritating woman I’ve met on this planet.” 

That surprises a laugh out of her, like an unexpected sneeze. “Oh, I dunno.” Fiona hooks a thumb behind her. “Have you met my sister? She’s pretty annoying, too.”

Rhys scrubs his face with both hands. “Nope,” he holds one slender digit in the air between them. “Not annoying. I didn’t say that.” 

“But you meant it, didn’t you?” Fiona crosses her arms, but she’s still smiling, smug and self-righteous.

Rhys sighs, and his professional composure fades with the exhale. He stares at her for a beat or two, both stubbornly indignant from their positions on either side of the sand, before he holds out a hand. “Truce?”

It’s so ridiculous as to be funny. They’ve made backwards progress; they aren’t friends, they’re barely business partners. Fiona isn’t any closer to understanding Rhys than she was five minutes ago, but the offer is still there, poised by his hand.

Fiona thinks of Sasha. Thinks of smoothing the road ahead, if only in the temporary. It will be easier to keep tabs on Hyperion with one in her pocket; it’ll be easier to satiate her sister if she keeps up the act. Fiona accepts the hand with only a minor display of sarcasm. Curiosity will be the death of her, one day. “You’re a big fan of handshakes,” she notes. 

Rhys shrugs again, one bony shoulder dipping high, then low. “A habit. Since Jack left, Hyperion is big on sorting out differences before violence is involved.”

“Makes sense.”

Rhys smiles, soft. His fingers curl around hers, long and slender and perfectly manicured. Fiona has to work to keep her bright blue nails from getting smudged or chipped; Rhys hasn’t glanced at his hands once except to observe the world of sand he finds himself on, and even then, it was more to study the planet than his own place in it. He’s effortlessly polished, hopelessly endearing, and stubbornly naive. Fiona doesn’t know which trait annoys her most, or if it’s the combination of all three that kindles the flame that is her nerves.

But his hand is warm, and his handshake firm. He’s proffered his human hand this time, the one that hadn’t been cradling sand. There’s some sort of metaphor there, some sort of courtesy, but Fiona chooses to ignore it. Rhys knows Fiona is accustomed to the dirtier, grittier aspects of Pandora, and Rhys knows she knows it, but still he clings to his offworld etiquette anyway. It’s...a nice gesture, if a touch misguided.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Fiona says, mulish.

Rhys does laugh then, rich and carefree. His face breaks free of its polite mask into one of genuine surprise, the emotion erupting out of him like a hiccup. “I’m well aware.” 

Fiona smiles. “An understanding, then.”

Rhys’ lopsided grin is too hopeful to be anything but sincere. “Sure.” 

Fiona breaks the contact before the evening can turn any more awkward than it already has. She nods toward the racetrack, the peeling of rubber against asphalt. “Sometimes I wish I could go down there, join the races. Just to see.”

Rhys turns with her. “Why don’t you?” There’s no judgment in his tone, just piqued interest. He’s curious, too. 

“Sasha,” Fiona answers to the air. The race is about to start, the thrum of engines revving louder and louder, the exhaust transforming the evening air into a cloud of polluted dust. Lights are switched on, stereos are plugged in, masks are donned. 

“Wouldn’t she join you? I get the impression you both live for the thrill.”

“Well, sure,” Fiona looks over at Rhys; finds him unexpectedly looking back. “But it’s too dangerous. I can’t risk her life on such a foolish venture, and I can’t risk my own neck without taking care of her, first.”

“Hmm.” Rhys looks back out over the crowd, his gaze thoughtful. They observe the race commencing in silence, and Fiona wonders, idly, if Rhys the Hyperion company man has ever taken a calculated risk in his life.

“I stole Vasquez’s car to get here,” he says. 

Fiona stares for another few minutes. Then she cracks. “Who the hell is Vasquez?”

Rhys laughs. _Really_ laughs, deep and authentic and wholly surprised. “Who is…I thought everyone knew.” Fiona stares at him, dumbfounded and judgmental. “He’s the senior vice president at Hyperion. Came into the position by murdering his way up the corporate ladder.”

“Sounds about right.”

Rhys snorts. “You’re telling me.”

“You ever murder to get your way up the corporate food chain?” Fiona keeps her eyes carefully on the horizon, her gaze perfectly neutral.

“Ha! No. Big surprise, I know.”

Fiona can’t help it; she nudges Rhys’ bony elbow. “Just seeing what you’re made of, hotshot.”

Rhys’ eyes are shining, his face lit up with rare humor. “It’s _Hyperion_ hotshot to you, thank you very much.”

Fiona covers her chest. “My apologies, diplomatic overlord, sir.”

Rhys nods, his arm brushing her shoulder. It’s camaraderie, or a distant cousin, maybe. “Titles are very important to Hyperion, you know.”

“So long as you don’t go around putting _handsome_ in the preceding title _,_ I think I can manage that.”

Rhys cups his chin in hand, thoughtful. “Well, if it’s _true,_ a little flattery can’t hurt…”

Fiona punches him in the arm. “How does _corporate dickhead_ sound to you?”

Rhys laughs and runs away from her attacking hands, whimpering high-pitched and squealing. Fiona should really tell him to shut it before the psychos below catch wind of their nefarious night-time activities, but it’s much more fun to threaten Rhys instead, fist poised high in melodramatic fashion.

She chases him back inside the caravan, just in time for an evening meal at Sasha’s welcoming hands. Sasha notches an eyebrow at Rhys’ lack of breath, and the threatening smile on Fiona’s face, but Fiona carefully dodges the questions for now. Not when she can chance one quick glance back at the landscape, just to see who won the race.

She can’t really tell over the dust still billowing in the air from her skirmish with Rhys, which somehow feels like a small victory all unto its own.

 

* * *

 

Another day of driving, another comrade fallen asleep at the wheel. Another dust storm, another cave providing shelter for half the afternoon. Another evening, another of Sasha’s attempts to wheedle her way into information that isn’t hers, but will be hers soon.

“So,” Sasha whispers, like she isn’t conspiring about two members of their team sitting six paces away, “what do you think of them?”

It’s times like these Fiona likes to pretend she isn’t on the up and up, for no other reason than making Sasha’s blood boil. Fiona mouths around a spoonful of grub Sasha’s prepared for dinner, biding her time. It’s not half bad grub, at that. If this job goes south, maybe August could hook Sasha up behind the bar. She’s come a long way since that food poisoning incident last summer. “Of who?”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but her grin is still wicked when she hunches down, closer. “The _boys,_ you dimwit.”

“You were holed up for _weeks_ on August’s arm. Aren’t you sick of the male species by now?”

“Uh, do you know me, Fi? Of course not. August was pretty, don’t get me wrong, but these two aren’t bad, either.” Sasha’s face takes on a wistful expression, and Fiona stops eating.

Sasha’s not wrong; there’s nothing _wrong_ with either party, aesthetically speaking. Vaughn is both a stereotype and distinctly _not_ a stereotype at the exact same time, a mind-bender that makes Fiona’s head spin. And Rhys…

He’s slender and he’s tall, two traits Fiona will freely admit she finds alluring. He takes pride in his appearance, which is either the mark of an arrogant streak or a unique fashion statement. He’s cute, but that’s only if you can see past the Hyperion logo on his chest. He makes Fiona’s skin crawl, but that’s mostly because she doesn’t _like_ looking. Rhys is bad news with capital letters, not only because of the yellow _H_ printed in bold tones, shining like a beacon on the corner of his chest.  

“Look,” Fiona says, and almost feels a little bad for doing it, “don’t go getting too attached to a pretty face, okay? Hyperion won’t be around for long.”

But Sasha, her baby, her sister, doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Oh, I know.” At Fiona’s head tilt, Sasha shrugs. “Just wanted a little chat with my sister, so sue me. Besides, I asked Rhys if he wanted to fix the caravan with me earlier and he totally declined. There was lots of blushing and stammering involved, but still. You know what that means.”

Fiona blinks, nonplussed. “Enlighten me.”

“He _turned me down,_ Fi. He’s totally gay!”

Fiona laughs outright, she can’t help herself. The outlandish thought is as absurd as it is stupid. “Sasha!”

“I’m _kidding,_ obviously.” Sasha shoves her elbow into Fiona’s side, and Fiona topples to the ground like a leaf on the wind. Sasha hoists her back upright with a too-harsh tug to the elbow. “I mean, he could be, who knows. It _is_ an interesting development, though. Maybe the wrong sister asked him, if you know what I’m saying.” Sasha’s eyebrows perform a delicate dance on her forehead, their crescendo peaking with a sultry wink.

Fiona’s chuckles die out and she knows, without looking, that two pairs of Hyperion eyes are on them. Heat rises to her cheeks, but Fiona doesn’t look. She can’t.

Looking is how you get caught.

The wind feels too cold, too vibrant on Fiona’s skin. “Sash…”

Sasha squeezes her elbow, gentler this time. “I’m just saying, Fi. Maybe not _all_ of Hyperion is as evil as you like to pretend it is. He’s been plenty nice to me, and he’s upper management.”

Fiona thinks about it. If Sasha is pressing her for kindness, it means Fiona’s been on the wrong side of cruel, or at least, making things awkward around the cabin. “I’ll work on it. Okay?”

Sasha smiles, pretty and sweet. “That is all I ask.”

Fiona pulls her into a hug. It’s a good enough excuse to avoid further questioning, and a good enough guise to dote on her baby sister. Fiona’s never been good at sharing, she’s even worse at letting go, but she’s always been great at teaming up with her sister, for good or bad. For better or worse.  
  
Even when Felix was around, it was always just the two of them. If Felix was the mastermind, then the sisters were the artists: playing marks, ambushing enemies, picking locks and solving puzzles. It’s always been the two of them against the world, and Fiona’s never been keen on expanding their private circle. Not before, when Felix was the guardian angel whispering in their ear, and especially not now, when Felix turned tail and ran, money strapped to his wrist and a bomb attached to the lever.

Rhys catches her eye above the fire, and his gaze is curious. Confident. He doesn’t pretend he hadn’t seen her, doesn’t shy away from where he’d been looking. Fiona wonders what that means, wonders what secrets those two-toned irises hold. She’s played men for money, strung them along for romance, but she’s never been watched. Never studied. She’s never stuck around, and she’s never looked back.

Fiona wonders, and then she looks away first.

 

* * *

 

They say you take a little piece of you everywhere you go.

If true, then Pandora holds a big chunk of Fiona’s heart. And it is true, she supposes, or true enough: Pandora has been Fiona’s entire world since before she could walk and at this point, she doubts she’ll ever know any different. She’s never been overly sentimental when it comes to attachments, and it’s just as well: Felix is the only one who bothered to look twice, and look what happened to him.

Point is, Pandora is a figure of contention for Fiona. She loves and loathes this planet, this dustball of treasure and doom, and no matter which way her story goes, Fiona knows she’ll always appreciate her humble beginnings, no matter how desperate the story was at the start.

As a whole, Fiona doesn’t care to linger on memories. Dwelling on the past doesn’t change the landscape, and there’s nothing to be done for past misdeeds. Still, Pandora does nothing if not provide long pregnant spaces filled with silence, and Fiona wonders, sometimes, if its Pandora’s own unique way of reminding its inhabitants that no bad deed goes unpunished. It’s one hell of a priest, Pandora, but Fiona appreciates the lack of hand-holding. Or judgment, for that matter. On Pandora, the only judge, and the only jury, is the one inside your skull, provided your head makes it through the night.

Sasha requires just enough energy to be a distraction most days, but there are slivers of vacancy in between her impulsive outbursts that leave just enough room for Fiona’s outlook to turn reflective. It tends to be a pretty pathetic picture, two parts wishful thinking and one part lost chances, but it’s always realistic: a lost dream amidst the reality of stone and sand.

“This trip is boring,” Sasha whines, as if on cue, dashing to her feet. “Time for a game!” Her eyes are shining, bright and mischievous, and Fiona knows just what that means. Fiona rolls her eyes when Sasha blinks expectantly her way, throwing up a hand for emphasis.

“I’ll keep my meager salary in my pocket where it belongs, thank you very much.”

“Ah come on, Fi. One game?” Sasha takes on a pleading tone, universally sympathetic and renowned by all younger siblings. Good thing Fiona is resistant to its effects, finally, after years of negotiating tactics.

Fiona levels Sasha with a look. Sasha’s will crumbles, and her eyes grow dim. Fiona loathes the stab of sympathy in her chest, blooming upwards toward her mouth. “Why don’t you ask one of our new _pals_ to join you? They love to gamble, don’t you boys?”

Rhys shoots even straighter in his seat. “Gambling, yes. We’re...pros at gambling! Very adept with numbers, we are.”

“ _I_ am, you mean,” Vaughn elbows his fellow employee, but he still turns to Sasha with a grin. “I’m in. Could be a good learning experience, for all parties involved.”

“Great! I’ll go grab the cards.” Sasha disappears into the back, tossing a wink Fiona’s way for good measure. Fiona chuckles under her breath and reties her boots, mentally sets a reminder to return Rhys’ own footwear later, preferably when he’s unconscious.

Sasha returns bouncing on her feet, because if there’s one thing Fiona’s baby sister adores, it’s setting the stage and being the center of attention. She explains the rules while only omitting the important ones—a good strategy for an innocent cheat—and Vaughn nods the entire time like he’s committing the entire table to memory. He picks up on Sasha’s tricks in prompt order, which makes for a hilarious evening watching Sasha get a well-deserved run for her money from someone who isn’t Fiona. A few rounds in they call a truce and turn sharp eyes on Rhys, who fumbles over his cards and fidgets in his seat every time someone calls him, which is often.

Fiona considers going to his aid, but it’s far more enjoyable to watch him blush and stumble his way into failure, instead.

“You’re not even trying!” Sasha laughs after the fifth round, and her smile is wide and bright. The pile of randomized junk they’re calling chips has certainly accumulated from one side of the table to the other, and Rhys’ returning grimace could be seen from space.

“I am! I’m just...not accustomed to these _rules._ They’re...oddly specific.”

Sasha shrugs. “That’s Pandora in a nutshell, baby. A giant, sandy free-for-all.”

“I’m getting that impression,” Rhys mutters down at his cards, eyes sharp. If he were wise, he would use that echo eye of his to his advantage. No one would be the wiser, and that tech would no doubt have untold advantages into the foyer of cheating. If Fiona deigned to take Rhys under her tutelage, the end result would be...extremely satisfying.

Sasha has similar thoughts, but distinctly more short-sighted. “Of course, we could switch up the rules. Make things a little more...interesting.” Sasha smirks.

There’s silence before the insinuation becomes concrete. “Uh…” Rhys looks at Fiona so sharply she can hear the bones in his neck creak. “I…”

“Now, now, little one,” Fiona laughs under her breath, abandoning her post under the guise of refilling her glass. “I think that’s enough blushing for one day.”

“But we’re just getting started!” Sasha pouts, but her eyes are still shining.

“Thank you,” Rhys whispers when Fiona stands poised near his shoulder, no matter the others can hear.

“Oh, it’s for my own benefit, I assure you,” Fiona mock-whispers back. “The only reason we’d want you out of that vest is to rid ourselves of the free Hyperion marketing campaign you’re wearing.”

Rhys looks unhinged, his fingers curling in the fabric of his undoubtedly favorite piece of informal wear. Vaughn laughs, hands smacking the table.

“Nice,” he says, his smile a mile wide. “I thought I was the only one who could put Rhys in his place.”

Fiona smiles, razor-sharp. “Oh, my favorite pastime is putting you Hyperion lackeys in your place. It’s a milder form of torture than the psychos.”

“On that, we agree,” Rhys chimes back in. He carefully removes the vest from his shoulders, which brings an onslaught of hoot and hollers from the rest of the table.

“We were joking, but I approve of the development,” Sasha nods, then sets about shuffling the cards. “You want in now, Fi?”

Fiona hesitates with her hand on the water purifier. She takes her time refilling the glass, a silent debate warring inside her skull. From her peripheral, she watches the sharp line of Rhys’ shoulder, the flexed tendons of his neck. There’s a tattoo there, disappearing into his collar, now uncovered after shedding one innocent item of clothing. An act of rebellion, one right after the other. Rhys may be shit at gambling, but he’s full of surprises just the same.

Fiona’s fingers curl around the glass, moisture collecting at her fingertips. Curiosity fiddles at her nerves.  
  
“Nah, I’ll sit this one out.” She turns around. “I’ll stick around, though. Help the newbie out.”

No one is more surprised than Rhys. He looks up at her with wide eyes, and his gullibility would be charming if he were anything but Hyperion. “Really?”

“Really.” Fiona tucks herself on the bannister, elbows on her knees, a guardian angel near Rhys’ side. “Now pay attention, because this is going to take awhile.”

He’s a follower, Rhys, and not a leader, so it doesn’t take long for them to find their footing together. She doubts he realizes he’s doing it, but Rhys’ easy submission to Fiona’s teaching is a great first step in earning Rhys a few gold stars in Fiona’s book. A rare feat that says just as much about Rhys’ lack of ego as it does Fiona’s craving for control.

That isn’t to say Rhys doesn’t earn a badge or two in his own right. Rhys is a good listener and an even better student. Which isn’t surprising, except for how it somehow is. Rhys leans her way without a second thought, unashamed to be asking for aid, his hair falling in his eyes when he concentrates. He’s an adorable mismatched disaster, somehow crisp and disheveled at the exact same time, and Fiona is charmed despite herself, notably at Rhys’ complete lack of trying. He’s not a marketing campaign, and he’s not a Hyperion dickhead, either; he is, but he isn’t, and the messy mixture of complexity and simplicity spikes her blood. Like the moment word of a new job falls onto her lap; when money slips into her pocket; when a bullet misses the mark. Less imperative, perhaps, but thrilling just the same.

“I can’t believe it,” Rhys is saying, slapping the table and standing. He’s a tall thing, all long limbs and thin torso, lean but with enough muscle to be on the right side of sleek, instead of just scrawny. “I won! We won!”

Fiona throws him a bemused smile, but she doesn’t join him in standing. Rhys looks just excited enough to initiate some sort of bodily contact, and Fiona’s not there yet by a long shot. No matter how intoxicating that new-car, Hyperion-issued cologne might smell, she’s simply not falling for the bureaucratic bullshit. “Not bad.”

“You’re amazing,” Rhys gushes, and doesn’t blush. Fiona’s known him for forty-eight hours and even she’s impressed with his pale white cheeks.

Rhys tosses a hand in the hair, palm forward in an invitation to high-five. Fiona rolls her eyes at his predictability, but completes the embrace anyway. It’s fine, really. It’s better than a hug, at any rate. Maybe that’s more Vaughn’s thing. He is beaming from the other side of the table like Fiona can’t see his bemusement behind those thick frames. Fiona feigns a cough and repositions herself on the bannister, wondering how she went from ripping off these assholes, to travelling with these assholes, to high-fiving these assholes in the span of two short days.

Still, another part of Fiona can’t deny the camaraderie is nice. Sasha is smiling and laughing, alive and carefree, utterly nonplussed to toss a few token chips Rhys’ way. They both know she’ll win them back in a round or two, but for now the victory is sweet. For now, they have the thrill of this moment, and it’s enough. It’s enough.

It’s times like this that make Fiona the fool. These are the snapshots she lives for, but they’re just that: polaroid, and never permanent. No one ever stays, and the smiles always fade. The tokens are just Pandoran junk from a neighboring landfill, old trinkets filled with old sand. Fiona wishes she had the heart to believe their sentimental value, to see the treasure that once existed underneath, but in truth Fiona is always thrusting life and limb just a little bit further, just a little bit longer in the hopes of something tangible, except the reward is never for her. Fiona doesn’t know if she simply doesn’t believe it’s her future to hold or if it’s sheer desperation, but either way: Fiona sweats and fights and grapples and scrapes and her only hope, at day’s end, is that Sasha—her sister, her baby, her family—can cradle something real in her hands. Something permanent. Something concrete. Something precious.

Yesterday wasn’t that day, today isn’t either, but tomorrow might be. So for now Fiona keeps to the outskirts, documents the smiles and memorizes the picture, because this is all the detail she’ll get to keep. There’s no denying it’s a picture perfect moment, a rare reprieve from the wasteland that haunts and taunts them, and Fiona knows, deep in her bones, this is another Pandoran snapshot she’ll keep tucked away, locked tight, when this little venture is complete and the deed is done.

Fiona looks at Rhys—hair mussed after hours of strategic gambling, orange sand tucked in the nook of his elbow that will undoubtedly startle and exasperate him—and wonders if he feels the same. Hyperion is all he knows, all he craves, all he adores, except it’s not a life he chose so much as it’s what life chose for him. That’s not to say his affection for the planet-killing station hovering in the sky is anything but real and true, just that time and circumstance has a funny way of shaping outlook, regardless of how shitty the reality may be.

She’d never admit it out loud, but Fiona has been blinded by affection before, too. On this very trip, no less.

“Throw away the four’s,” Fiona says, forcibly snapping back into the present.

“What? Why?” Rhys doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

“You want to lead with something greater than those low numbers.”

“But I don’t have anything better.”

Fiona ducks closer to hover near his ear. “I know that, and you know that, but you don’t want _them_ to know that.”

Rhys doesn’t turn, but his eyes dart her way. “Right,” he mock-whispers. “Because false bravado is totally my style.”

Fiona’s returning smile is wicked. “Now you’re getting it, hotshot. Never reveal your hand. Never earlier than you absolutely have to.”

Rhys rolls his eyes and slaps his four’s on the table as he’s told, and Fiona leans back into her position of casual nonchalance half a foot away, a statuesque queen upon her throne.

If Rhys were a little bit wiser, he would see the rules for what they are. If Fiona were kinder, she would guide his hand with gentle expertise.

But he doesn’t, and she isn’t, so instead Fiona leans into her role of delegating mastermind spewing murky half-truths. The picture is an uneven, but functional one: a cynic and an idealist, not quite side by side.

 

* * *

 

Fiona knows better, is the thing.

They’re desperate and on the run, which in itself spells doom, or at the very least a steaming skag pile of trouble. That’s not mentioning the tiny fact they’re trusting two Hyperion employees to grant them safe passage through the badlands just so they can split the money four ways instead of three. Sure, August is out of the picture, and Fiona can appreciate a clean break when she sees one, but a two for one special does not a fortune make. And that’s _before_ the rakk hive showed up, hellbent on their destruction.

Today is not a good day.

 _Use ‘em and lose ‘em,_ Felix always said, but that was before he used her, too. That was before he ripped the rug out from under her _real_ family, the only family Fiona has left—a clean break so brilliant Fiona is still reeling in the aftermath. How she wishes she could follow the same objective formula, how she wishes she was the one running away with a score comprised of so many ones and zeroes. Except she isn’t Felix, that has been made abundantly clear, because if she was, she would be shoving these two Hyperion assholes out the door faster than she could blink with no remorse because she’d have a sharp eye on the prize.

Fiona glances over her shoulder: Sasha is arguing with the smaller Hyperion while some birds circle overhead, their incessant screeching drowning out the incessant arguing. Fiona gave up on words a few hours ago, opting for a the solitude of her thoughts, and pondering the philosophical nature of her own quest for glory compared to that of her adoptive father.

It’s a catch twenty-two, but hey. Fiona’s got time and desert on her side.

Still, the promise of a Vault is a difficult thing to ignore, and like a broken panel gleaming red, Fiona lingers at the scene of the crime just to witness the devastation first hand. She doesn’t know why she bothers; morbid fascination, maybe, or an affinity for knowing the truth, objective and clear. She isn’t one for magic tricks or red herrings, which is precisely why she’s a fallen prodigy with a bounty the size of an outlying city on her head and not a criminal mastermind, rich and alone.

So, she drives. Angry and fuming across the desert, with sweat on her brow and fury in her hands. The suit takes over halfway, insisting he can boost the controls and whisk them away faster than she can blink. There isn’t time to think, only time to react, and Fiona is just tired and just betrayed enough to not believe in anything anymore; she’s just empty enough to take a chance on dumb luck. Her back’s against the wall, and at this point, what does she really have to lose?

“Fine,” Fiona says, pushing out of the seat. She ignores the way Hyperion’s eyes go wide in favor of drawing her gun. “No funny moves,” she adds, with a subtle wave of the weapon his direction. That makes his eyes go even wider, almost bug-eyed, but he does indeed sit with all the reverence her piece of shit hand-me-down travel companion of a caravan deserves. Which is something, at least.

“Trust me, I’ve been hacking into subsystems since I’ve been crawling. There’s no way I can’t give this... _thing_ a speed boost.”

The balls on this one. “Word to the wise, cowboy,” Fiona says, drawing to the back of the van where Sasha is screaming her name in tune with the rakk hoard closing in. “Next time you want to drive, try not to insult the car on your way out.”

If she were closer to inspect, Fiona would guess Hyperion is flushed red with embarrassment. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Fiona waves a hand. “Do your cybernetic enhancement thing. I’ll take care of this mess in the back.”

The suit actually salutes. “Aye aye, captain.” Like a goddamn poster boy. Fiona almost snorts at the absurdity of it all.

Turns out poster boy makes good on his promise to upgrade the caravan, and that’s _after_ Scooter’s own makeover, so Fiona keeps the Hyperion duo on board just to spite Felix and his _don’t trust anyone_ bullshit. Fiona is just tired and just pissed off enough to make her own way in life, damn the rules and damn the consequences. If her most trusted ally and father figure can run out on her at a moment’s notice, then what’s there to lose with this crisp new outfit? At least when they stab her in the back, she’ll be expecting it.

As far as reasoning goes she’s had better, but she’s feeling just pissed off enough to be reckless.

She’s just foolish enough to be fearless, and damn if it doesn’t feel good.

 

* * *

 

“Rhys,” the taller, cuter version of Hyperion says, extending his human hand.

It’s a bad idea to go about mixing business and pleasure, but Fiona shoves the impulse aside. She’s done letting other forces dictate her actions and telling her how to shit, where to jump, when to trust. This time she’s taking charge of her own story, even if it means breaking a few rules, making up some new ones, and potentially making a fool of herself in the process. Damn the rules, damn the consequences. This is for her own sake _._

Also maybe ten million dollars. Also maybe Sasha.

Fiona shoves her hand forward, aggressive and ungraceful, but Rhys doesn’t seem to mind. His hand is cold to the touch, which is surprising, somehow. Everything about Rhys the Hyperion man is surprising, somehow.

“Fiona.”

“Fiona,” Rhys mimics, like he’s trying the vowels out. It’s only after Fiona watches his mouth complete it’s strangely elongated version of her name that Fiona realizes she didn’t even bother with an alias. Rookie mistake.

“Nice to meet you,” Rhys declares, like the transaction is complete. For Rhys the Hyperion, maybe it is. Still, there’s something surprising about a company man bothering to know the people he’s sent here to watch self-destruct. Then again, Fiona wouldn’t put it past half of Hyperion to get off on the bloodshed. But Rhys doesn’t seem the demented type, and he certainly doesn’t seem eager to try his hand at violence, either. Which is brave of him, given his occupational standing, if not incredibly stupid.

Still. Not for Fiona to judge her clientele. Not when there’s money on the horizon, at least.

“Wish I could say the same,” Fiona replies, dry, and Rhys doesn’t miss a beat.

“Right. I um,” Rhys rubs his neck. “I’m sorry about the trying-to-steal-your-caravan part. We just—we’ve never been in a firefight, and I’m generally useless with guns, so…”

Fiona regards Rhys the Hyperion man with narrowed eyes. “Is there something you _are_ particularly skilled at?”

Rhys offers a nervous chuckle. “Breaking up a con?”

Fiona stares, deadpan.

Rhys clears his throat.

“Right. Um, is this real? Like a job interview or something?” Rhys clearly can’t read her expression, and Fiona pats herself on the back for an intimidating job well done. He’s such an easy mark, even if he’s not wrong about wrecking her con. She’ll never admit out loud Rhys is clearly much more intelligent than his superior, since it’s quite clear Vasquez couldn’t even sort ten million dollars together in less than an hour when he’s the CEO of a billion dollar company. If Rhys is as intelligent as he appears, then he doesn’t need Fiona to kiss his over-inflated, over-bureaucratic ass any more than his coworkers already do. She won’t be responsible for Handsome Jack reincarnated.

Now there’s a thought.

“I’m uh, I’m good at building things. Even from scratch. Electronics, cybernetics, you name it.”

Fiona thinks. “Like hacking the money?”

Rhys’ face transforms into one of pure excitement. “Yes! Exactly like that. But more. Way more.”

“He is very good,” the other, shorter Hyperion pitches in from Rhys’ side. “It’s why he was tailor made for the CEO position. Except...some asshole took over instead.”

Glasses looks over at her. “Vaughn, if there are to be introductions.”

Fiona nods in greeting. She’s shaken hands with one Hyperion too many today. “What happened?”

Rhys shrugs. “Oh, it’s a long story. Er, well. I guess it’s a pretty short one: asshole killed some guy, threatened to kill me too, demoted me, and named himself king. Hence: stealing his deal—or trying to—and now escaping both Pandora thugs and Pandora wildlife while hitching a ride with you.”

Sounds about right. Fiona tips her hat, smirks. “Welcome to Pandora.”

To her surprise, Rhys smiles back. “You know, you’re the first person to say that. Are _you_ the welcoming committee I’ve been waiting for?”

Charming, if a little strange in the head. Then again, who on Pandora isn’t. “If you call ruining the deal and escaping with the skin of our teeth _welcoming,_ then yeah.” Fiona grins. “I’m the picture of welcoming.”

Rhys chuckles. “Well, compared to the these guys,” Rhys points to the bandits outside their window, yelling and riding through the desert with shrill, terrifying screams, “I’d say you’re doing a great job.”

It’s...a startlingly honest admission. And strangely uncomfortable for Fiona’s _tough love_ front. “Um, thanks,” she says, belated.

Rhys is still smiling softly, the nerd. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of awkward nothing, in which Fiona wishes her hat covered more of her eyes, when Vaughn coughs. “Not that it isn’t lovely to finally know each other a little better than borrowing your circuitry and tracking down Hyperion money, I think there’s—” and right on cue, a red light from the center control panel flashes, warning them of a potential hazard on the horizon. Fiona isn’t surprised, and she certainly isn’t scared—that is, until the rakk hive shows up.

Of course. When has Fiona’s well of bad luck _not_ run dry.

Five minutes later, Rhys flies out the back end of the now demolished caravan, that stupid striped sock disappearing from sight, and Fiona is left staring at an abyss of sand and two Hyperion grunts who simultaneously saved her life and ruined her chance at a normal one in the span of one ludicrous afternoon. It shouldn’t matter; they shouldn’t be a blip on her radar, even if the suit did manage to kill the beast in a move both insane, brilliant, and ballsy.

And yet.

If there’s one lesson this afternoon has taught her, it’s that life never goes as planned. Fiona thought she’d be retired on a beach by now, mixed drink in hand, never mind that Pandora doesn’t have any beaches, because Pandora doesn’t have anything to offer except secrets and sand. Life has a funny way of calling you out on your bullshit, your cravings, and your fears, never mind that Fiona didn’t know her worst fear was the person she loved betraying her, and a self proclaimed Hyperion asshole acting the hero for a day.

And maybe there lies the greatest truth of all. Sometimes the people you trust turn out to be assholes, and sometimes the friends you make are the unusual goons you meet along the way. Sometimes life punches you in the face for no other reason than knocking some sense into your skull the hard way, because you’d never listen to reason otherwise. And if you’re lucky, if you’re really, _really_ lucky, there will be someone out there to catch you when you come out the other side.

 _Why, oh why did it have to be him._ Fiona rolls her eyes, takes the wheel, and sets about mounting a rescue.

The worst part is, she’s not even sure she minds.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading. If you feel so inclined, creeping is welcomed [here](http://arlathahn.tumblr.com/).  
> 


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